


Where The Moon Is A Pie

by Vaysh



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist!Steve, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dimension Travel, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Skinny!Steve, Sputnik, comic science, dismisses canon after Captain America: The Winter Soldier, everyone lives in the tower, future Shrinkyclinks, janitor!steve, nods to canon after Captain America: The Winter Soldier, only Steve and Bucky live in Brighton Beach, traditional brainwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: Bucky shouldn't have touched the thing. Now look at the mess he's landed himself in. Or: Bucky Barnes is zapped into another dimension.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 99
Kudos: 242





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On March 18, 2020 was my 10 Year AO3 Anniversary. I've been celebrating the occasion by posting the Stucky fic I wrote writing during the last months. It's totally been my happy place. 
> 
> "Where the Moon is a Pie" was written for prompt #11 for Shrinkyclinksfest 2019 but I could not finish the fic in time for the fest. Thanks so much to the prompter, SS, who asked for (from my notes) "parallel universe, Steve (born in the 80s) is a janitor in Avengers Tower, nobody heard of Captain America, dismisses post-CATWS canon."
> 
> Thank you, my inspiring, meticulous betas, [Pushdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushdragon) and [Dornfelder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder).

★

Damn. He'd been so careful. The fucking thing. He even used the metal arm to check it out. Probably should have used the human hand, because all Bucky remembers is a zap and a buzz, like an electric current hit him. He must have been knocked out by the power surge. Metal is a conductor, even the cutting-edge alloy of the arm. 

Bucky groans as he lifts his head. Okay, so he’s lying on the fucking floor, beneath one of Stark’s workbenches. It’s still dark in the lab; there's just a strip of muted light on the floor. It leads to the emergency exit, he recalls from his early days in the Tower, when he trusted nobody and did routine perimeter checks on all floors. It’s been five years since he broke free from Hydra, four years since Steve found him in a flophouse in Brighton Beach. He honestly can't remember when he's last been in Stark’s lab at night. 

Where the hell did Nat and Stark go? They were discussing something on the other side of the room, weren't they? He got bored and poked around in the shelves. That last thing he remembers is touching this weird device – and boom! But it’s all a bit fuzzy in his brain, and surely Nat would not leave him lying on the floor like that. Stark is another story, but Steve at least must wonder why he hasn't come home to dinner, much less to –

Soft steps approach on the stairs. Bucky follows the light strip with his eyes, and yep, someone's coming down to the lab. For a moment, Bucky thinks it’s Ms. Potts but she's taller, faster, a different walk altogether even when she’s not wearing high-heels. 

The person punching in the access code to the lab is a little guy. He’s wearing blue overalls, and Bucky can hear a set of keys rattle in his pants. The guy – must be a janitor – is walking leisurely as if he’s strolling through the dark lab every night. Stark would never allow his lab to be cleaned unsupervised, and if he did, Bucky would know about it. He no longer does nightly perimeter checks but he _is_ Head of Tower Security. He knows for a fact that cleaning personnel only comes into the lab once a week, and it's Josip from Maintenance who lets them in.

The little guy stops in front of a locker Bucky has never seen before. He opens it with one of the keys, and takes out a… 

It's a vacuum cleaner. Bucky can see as much even in the dark. A perfectly normal vac, with a long tube and, okay, it's cordless, probably battery-powered. And there Bucky was sure Tony Stark had invented a cleaning robot years before Roomba. But apparently vacuuming the lab cannot be left to a robot. A chuckle makes its way up Bucky’s throat when the janitor hits the light switch. The lab is flooded with fluorescent brightness.

The little guy turns around, vacuum cleaner in tow. Blond, bones fragile like a bird's, his breathing is labored. _Steve?_

Bucky is on his knees, Steve’s name on his lips – what the hell happened? What the fuck is Steve doing in a cleaning job, what with his –

His head explodes. Stark’s workbenches are solid steel. At high impact, not even the Winter Soldier’s fortified skull is a match for them.

★

"Sergeant Barnes' DNA matches the one I have on record, Sir. The discrepancy I noticed does not concern the physical body of Sergeant Barnes but his prosthesis."

"Looks perfectly normal to me, JARVIS. Just like after the last update." 

Tony fucking Stark is rummaging around in Bucky's arm with a screwdriver. Bucky would love to punch him in his unshaven jaw. But he's strapped to a lab chair with iron bands that remind him of nothing as much as the irons Hydra used to keep the Winter Soldier in check. With all his strength he tries to tear his arm away, the right one, because the left one is out of commission. But the clamps won't budge. 

"James, Goddammit, keep still. You know we have to check up on anyone JARVIS considers a threat."

"I'm. Not a. Fucking. Threat," Bucky brings out through clenched teeth.

Stark looks up from whatever he is doing to Bucky's arm, grins his toothy grin, and pats Bucky on the hand, the metal one. "JARVIS," he says, "put up the scan."

A diagram of Bucky's arm appears in the air. He's familiar with the image from his bi-monthly check-ups. 

"Now the scan from five weeks ago, JARVIS."

Another image snaps into existence. Blue lines delineate the shape of his arm, the metal bones, the gears and gadgets inside. The electrical circuits are a lighter blue, the chips shine green. For a moment Bucky let's himself observe his arm as if something had been altered, as if he actually had been tampered with, without his knowledge. But the arm looks like it has looked for the last four years, ever since the last big operation.

They all stare at the two diagrams now. Natasha stands on his right side, opposite Stark. Bucky has the odd feeling she's about to take his hand, the flesh one. Banner is hovering near the large windows, behind the row of monitors. Clint sent him there right after Bucky came to – half-conscious and strapped into a fucking lab chair. Bucky's never seen Clint take charge like this. Now he steps closer to the images and studies them, a look of concern on his face. He is dressed casually, like Bucky knows him, untied sneakers, jeans and his usual hoody with the Stark logo. But something about the way Clint holds himself is different.

"They look the same to me," Clint says.

"May I direct your attention to the area just underneath the head of the humerus, Mr. Barton."

_Mister Barton?_ If he wasn't so pissed Bucky would crack up. Somebody must have messed with JARVIS; he _never_ calls Clint by his last name. Clint hates it, something about his circus past he doesn't want to be reminded of. This is the moment Wilson would come up with a funny quip but Wilson isn't here. Sam's in D.C. for the week, on veterans' admin business.

There is no sign of Steve.

And Clint does not react to JARVIS' odd address. Neither of them do. They all look at the diagram floating in the air, at the place just underneath Bucky's shoulder. JARVIS has it now outlined in red. 

Something twists in Bucky's stomach. "Where is Steve?" he asks.

"What kind of chip is this, JARVIS?" Clint says.

The chip is set into the metal bone right where it connects to the metal scapula. For all Bucky knows it's always been there, controlling the movement of the upper arm. 

"It's a chip with four high-performance cores and two energy-efficiency cores, for increased speed." Stark points with the screwdriver, here and there.

"And here?" Clint points to the other diagram, the one from their scan just now. There's another chip, also outlined in red. Bucky squints, and shit, the thing _does_ look different.

"This chip's larger," Stark says. He does something with his stupid screwdriver in Bucky's opened left wrist. Bucky feels nothing, but an electric current fizzles up his arm. On the first diagram, the circuitry connecting chip and plating light up. "And I know for a fact that I replaced this one with a new tredec-core chip when we upgraded the arm." He shoots Bucky a questioning look.

Bucky has no memory of a chip replacement. Which means nothing. He tries not to think too hard about the chips and wiring inside of his arm. It's his fucking arm. He comes to Stark for repairs when it's broken. And yes, sometimes Stark works on it, and afterwards some unacknowledged pain is gone. Or a movement Bucky didn't even register suddenly feels easier, smoother. Bucky rather dwells on the arm's strength and flexibility than on all the little ways it's not as natural as his other one. He shrugs and turns his head back to the diagrams floating in the air.

"JARVIS, highlight it," Tony says.

"Yes, Sir." 

The single chip lights up in green. It's a small, sleek thing. Stark probably also replaced it to reduce the arm's weight. He's always going on about how the prosthesis is much too heavy. "Where is Steve?" Bucky asks again. Steve keeps better track of his arm repairs than he does. He might know.

"Steve? Did Stephen put the old chip back?" Stark taps the screwdriver against his front teeth. "But why? 

Okay, what the fuck, Bucky's had enough. _Stephen?_ He knows how to handle Stark when things get out of hand. And something definitely is not right here when Stark is so mad at Steve that he calls him Stephen. 

"Tony, can I talk to Pepper for a moment?" he says quietly. He even puts a touch of thoughtfulness in his voice, as if he decided to accept that they strapped him to a fucking chair, in a fucking lab, and just remembered something he needs to discuss with Ms. Potts.

The screwdriver clatters to the floor. The humming of the mass of electronics in the lab sounds overly loud. Natasha puts her hand on Bucky's; her touch is soft, careful. Stark is staring at him.

"Ms. Potts has left Stark Industries three months ago, Sergeant Barnes. She is currently working in an advising position for the Department of Research and Innovation at the Europ–"

"Shut up, JARVIS!" Tony barks out.

Fuck. There are only two possible explanations for this: One – Candid Camera has come to Avengers Tower, and they are all messing with him. Two – the device he touched was Stark's shiny new D-beamer prototype, and Bucky's landed himself in another dimension. Bucky's pretty sure he's not lucky enough to appear on Candid Camera. But a few months ago, Stark was all about alternate timelines and parallel universes. The way he was talking you could think his dimension travel patent was mere days away. Bucky has resigned himself to the fact that when space aliens can attack New York, of course Stark will want to discover a way to travel between dimensions. But Bucky never expected it would be _him_ who does the first experimental jump. And it has to be experimental. Because Stark lost interest in his dimension beamer research months ago, and the Avengers are back to smoking out Hydra bases in Southern America. 

Natasha and Clint are trading worried glances; Stark is tapping out a slow rhythm on Bucky's arm. Bucky can practically feel how they're going through possible scenarios – has he lost his memories again, is the Winter Soldier resurfacing? Is he possessed by a fucking alien, is Loki back? Bucky needs all his will power to not tear at the clamps again. He is pretty sure he can break them. Stark has deactivated his metal arm but he is a super soldier, even though he's not as strong as Steve. He eyes the clamp around his right wrist; he knows he can break it. Just then, Bruce steps around the monitors and comes closer. Bucky forces himself to relax into the chair. If the Hulk comes out, they'll have him in cold storage in no time. _Where is Steve?_

"James." Clint puts his hand on Bucky's flesh shoulder. 

It's a gesture he knows from Clint; he usually does it when they're on a rooftop and Bucky won't accept they missed a hit. The gesture means: _Step down, bro. Cool it._ Bucky takes a deep breath. Between Nat's hand and Clint's he knows they will not hurt him. Even here, in whatever parallel world this is, they are his friends.

"James," Clint says again. "I'm going to ask you a couple of simple questions. Something is wrong. We need to assess what's happening. Okay?"

Bucky nods. He'll play along until he has a better grasp on this place.

"What day is today?"

He can't be serious! "It's Friday fucking 13, for all I care," Bucky hisses.

"Sergeant Barnes is incorrect, today is –"

"JARVIS, voice off," Stark mutters. A soft click comes from the speakers that, Bucky swears, sounds insulted. "Just tell Clint the date, James." 

Stark is all business again and bends down to retrieve the screwdriver from the floor. But Bucky notices how he's checking the diagrams still floating in the air. Stark is not looking at the chip that supposedly has been replaced. He's looking at the inside of Bucky's elbow where the shut-down switch is located. Tony Stark is not stupid. Of all the Avengers he knows best what Bucky is capable of. And, Bucky reminds himself, he built a functioning dimension beamer, a thing that was pure science fiction not a year ago. Stark is wearing grey sweatpants, wrinkled pink tee, dark sunglasses shoved into his messy hair – the exact same outfit he was wearing during their meeting yesterday. But something's off. Bucky can't remember ever having seen such dark shadows under Stark's eyes. His hair is too long; he looks as if he hasn't had a haircut in weeks. Pepper, Bucky thinks.

"The date, come on, James," Clint asks again.

Bucky sighs. Yesterday was Wednesday and tomorrow is Friday when Steve and he will have Sam over for dinner. Which means today – "Today is Thursday, April 11. 2019."

They all nod. It looks fucking ridiculous. But good to know that wherever he has landed himself, it's not the future or the past.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Clint asks.

"Coming to, strapped to this fucking chair!" Yes, it's silly but Bucky can't let this one go. They _know_ how he feels about lab chairs and being strapped to them with arm clamps. Leg clamps, too. He didn't even know Stark owns a chair like this. 

"Before, James?" Clint says, all patience. 

He sighs again. "We were de-briefing. The Hydra base on the Falklands."

Another round of ridiculous nodding but a wave of relief washes through Bucky. He's not lucky enough for Candid Camera but at least this dimension seems to be very close to the one he's coming from.

"You,“ he nods at Nat and Stark, "were going through British intelligence. Steve and Bruce," he turns as far as he can to look at Bruce, "you were discussing politics. The new superhuman regulations the Governor of Texas proposed." Nat stares at him, more nodding from the others. Okay, here it goes. "I was bored and poked around in the stuff on the shelves. I touched this device you've hidden back with the robots, Stark. The dimension beamer." 

He cannot quite turn his head this far, not when his body is secured like that. Instead he points with his chin to the corner of the lab where Dum-E and U are on standby. It's the side of the lab where Stark keeps his old Iron Man suits. There's a locker there, Bucky suddenly remembers, with a vacuum cleaner inside. _Stevie..._ Steve before the war, before the serum. He looked so real. Hell, it's been years since he had such a vivid dream of Steve when they were young. Being zapped must have done something to his brain to trigger such an ancient memory. 

"The dimension beamer?" Stark is already up and rummaging through the shelves. "There is no dimension beamer. Not here, not anywhere else in the world. Well, maybe in Japan. The Japanese have not yet published the results of their latest accelerator run. How did this device look, James? Must have been a prototype. I cannot believe you randomly fucked with something in my lab. These are highly sensitive devices."

Bucky tries to remember. What _did_ the thing look like? "A metal disk. Looks lighter than it is. Dark grey metal, I couldn't make out what exactly. Heavy," he says. "About 24 inches in diameter. It has its own power source. Electricity, it shocked me when I touched it. A kind of gauge on top, futuristic looking. Inset panels, glass ceramic buttons, I think. It was sitting on the third shelf up, to the left."

There's a clatter back in the corner and something crashes to the floor. Stark makes an annoyed sound. " _Electricity_ , God help me," he mutters. "There is no such device here. But if I'd developed a functioning D-beamer, it certainly wouldn't be powered by electricity." 

Bucky tries to turn around again, with his full body this time. But all it earns him are burns from the clamp on the bare skin of his right arm. "Unstrap me," he grinds out, "and I'll show you."

"Tony?" Natasha has Bucky's hand in a tight grip.

Stark steps back into Bucky's view. 

"JARVIS, what's your threat assessment of James here?" he says, all smug. The bastard! He's holding a model of the Millennium Falcon in his hands. It's Peter's; Bucky knows this for a fact. He definitely would remember if there had been a model of the Millennium Falcon on the shelves yesterday.

"Tony, this is serious." There is a warning tone in Clint's voice. 

"What? James here said: large metal disk, heavier than it looks, 24 inches in diameter." Stark lifts the toy. "Exactly 24.6 inches."

Bucky is so sick of it. He knows the D-beamer is somewhere back there. "Where is Steve?" he asks for the third time.

Stark blinks at him and drops the Millennium Falcon on the workbench. "Stephen is in –"

"Sergeant Barnes' heart rate is elevated but well within parameters. He is armed with four knives" – _thanks for nothing, JARVIS!_ – "but all his firearms are stored in his quarters, as by current Tower security protocol. I detect signs of agitation and stress but no hostility. Estimated threat level at thirty-five percent, which is acceptable. I would advise to unstrap him from the chair to prevent further trauma."

And _thank you_ , JARVIS, for remembering that he does not well around lab chairs.

"Okay." Stark pushes a couple of buttons on a remote control Bucky hasn't even noticed yet. Immediately all four iron bands click open. 

Bucky is half out of the chair when he realizes the metal arm is still deactivated and open at the wrist. He looks around for the fucking screwdriver.

"Sorry," Stark mutters. He pokes around in the arm with the screwdriver, and it immediately powers up. Bucky snaps the plating of the wrist compartment in place. 

He raises the arm, he makes a fist – it moves and feels like it always does. He lets out a long breath.

Nat quickly rubs the soft spot between his thumb and forefinger, then withdraws her hand. Bucky gives her a grateful look and finally gets up and out of the fucking chair. But he can no longer let this slide. It's the one thing that makes no sense at all. So he landed himself in another dimension. A dimension where Clint is in charge and JARVIS calls him _Mister_ Barton; a dimension where Stark calls Steve _Stephen_. Somewhere on the shelves behind him lies the damn D-beamer and soon he will press another button and be catapulted back into his own world. But he cannot just leave. Not yet. Something is eerily wrong in this dimension, and it has to do with Steve.

"Where is Steve, Stark?" he asks. 

"He's in Hong Kong. In the Sanctum." Stark eyes him suspiciously. "And why do you keep calling him Steve?"

"The Sanctum?"

Now everyone is giving him strange looks.

Stark turns to Clint. "He's clearly suffered brain damage. How did you find him again? And what was he doing in my lab at seven in the fucking morning?"

Clint shrugs. "JARVIS alerted me. James was lying unconscious under this table." He points at the workbench. "Looked to me as if he had crawled underneath, got up too fast and knocked himself out." 

He grins at Bucky who touches his temple where, yep, now that he can concentrate on something other than getting out of the chair, he can feel a bump the size of a chestnut. He did knock himself out. But he never crawled underneath that bench. 

Without a word Bucky walks towards the corner, pats Dum-E on the head as he passes, and lets his gaze wander over the shelves. Third from the bottom. There's the empty space from where Stark took the Millennium Falcon, but the D-beamer is not here. He checks systematically one shelf after the other, kneels down on the floor and looks at – the Shield.

"The hell?"

There is no dust, no tarnish. The red, white and blue is as bright as if the Shield was brand spanking new. Bucky yanks it out, slides it onto the metal arm and spins around. 

He confronts the Avengers face-on. "Are you going to tell me now where you've been hiding Captain America?"

It's the first time, in all the long years he's known her, that he sees Nat's chin drop. She moves closer to Clint – pure protective instinct, Bucky thinks. Clint has his hand at his ear, adjusting his hearing aid. Bruce, always the quiet guy, their voice of reason, simply stares.

And Stark – fucking Stark explodes into a fit of giggles. 

"Captain," he wheezes, literally _wheezes_ , "A-fucking-Murica? That's a good one, James, I give you that." More wheezing laughter. Stark's stupid face is turning red. "Right up there with Captain Britain." He wipes tears from his eyes. "Captain _America_. Brilliant, seriously brilliant. Did you and the Howlies make that up back when you were traipsing around Europe? It does sound like something the Greater Generation would have –"

"Shut it, Stark!" Clint steps between them, hands raised. 

Nat is at Bucky's side; he has no idea how she got there.

"This is Steve's Shield," Bucky wants to scream but his voice has gone hoarse. "His Captain America Shield. And I wish he'd left it at the bottom of the Potomac where the fucking thing belongs. But he got it back, and he never leaves the Shield behind, no matter where he goes. Where is he?"

The robots in the back are softly whirring. It feels as if they're moving closer. 

The shadows under Stark's eyes seem even darker than before. "You're serious," he says. "That's..." He points at the Shield on Bucky's arm. "Howard developed it during World War Two. A prototype. Something to do with the super soldier program." He swallows. "It's made from Vibranium, which is why I kept it. But it was never used. Too rare and expensive for regular army issue." 

Bucky lowers the Shield. Stark does not sound as if he's lying. And Bucky must look like he's lost his marbles, in attack stance, the Shield on his arm.

"There is only one person named Steve associated with the Avengers." Bruce talks slowly, quietly. "His name is Stephen Strange." 

It's the weirdest name. So at odds with a run-of-the-mill name like _Steve Rogers_ Bucky wants to laugh. But he can't. He cannot face what Bruce means, cannot let himself think it. 

"James," Nat says who never called him James, not even back in Russia. Yakiv, Soldat, Barnes, but never James. "There is no Captain America here."

★

Bucky leaves Stark's lab, leaves Avengers' Tower. He needs fresh air, needs to walk, he needs to be alone and _think_. Stark and Nat didn't want to let him go, and JARVIS advised to keep him locked up in the Tower. But Clint just nodded, didn't even make Bucky promise to return, and simply waved him good-bye. And apparently, in this world, it's Clint who has the last word on things like this. Things like leading the Avengers. Things like the former Winter Soldier trading places with his counterpart in another universe. 

He's walking up Fifth Avenue. The damage from the Chitauri attack is still noticeable everywhere. But just like at home, new buildings have appeared where not that long ago only rubble filled the holes in the ground. New York recovers, always, and New Yorkers provide what's important in life in this dimension, too: Bucky finds the sushi joint where he's been fed soup ever since his first days in the city. He finds his favorite coffee shop down in Grand Central Station.

Sipping coffee from a paper cup, Bucky wonders how _James_ is doing. Here, they strapped Bucky into a fucking chair. Does Stark at home even own such a thing? And why hasn't he long sent James back? Bucky doesn't want to think of it but everything here reminds him of home, and what if he can not go back. What if Stark's prototype only worked this once, and it's just Bucky's bad luck to get stuck in a place where he doesn't belong. 

He walks and walks and eventually enters Central Park where he strolls along the shoreline of the Harlem Meer. Steve and him run here in the mornings, they listen to free music in the summer, they get ice cream, they make out. One memorable afternoon they made love in a secluded spot between a boulder and the swaying branches of a weeping willow. Steve, Bucky thinks, will not leave him here. Steve will make sure that Stark gets him home. Whatever it takes and no matter what is happening in his world right now.

He takes a deep breath. There's a chill in the air but it's faint, the mere memory of a long winter. On the North Meadow there are tulips everywhere. The trees shimmer green and pink and brilliantly white. Their smell accompanies him as he leaves the park at the 97th Street exit.

On Central Park West Bucky runs face-first into a billboard with an image of the Howlies. Dirty, boisterous soldiers in patched-up uniforms, with old-fashioned gear, and his grinning mug right in the middle. There's an exhibition at the New York Historical Society, and this is where he goes to find out more – not about himself but about Steve. 

When he steps into the museum, he wants to call it a déjà vu. But the exhibition is so different from the one he stumbled into five years ago – back in Washington D.C., at the Smithsonian, when he barely knew his name and was looking for answers he had no questions for. 

It's a smaller display, part of a general exhibition about the Second World War. The walls are white, the lighting bright. There are no interactive scales for kids to measure their height. There are no heroic displays of soldiers at war. The Howlies' colorful uniforms, definitely not standard issue, are displayed behind glass. Bucky always had a soft spot for his famous blue jacket, and he smiles at the replica. There's Dum Dum's bowler hat, there's Dernier's red beret. There's Jim's dog tags and a brittle, browned document listing Gabe's formidable language skills – bastard spoke five languages including Russian. There's an antique detonation device looking just like the ones Dernier used to set off bombs from a distance. There's their old radio. 

Two more visitors are in the room but they rush through the exhibit in under two minutes. A museum guard is standing at the door, an elderly brown-skinned woman in sensible flat shoes. She watches Bucky closely as he takes his time reading the small print on the notes in the display cases. The Howling Commandos exhibit, he has a feeling, is not exactly popular with the crowds.

Tucked alongside a map of all the Hydra bases they destroyed, there is the story of the Red Skull and Zola. And here Bucky discovers a reference to the United States Super Soldier program. In this dimension, they gave the serum to a guy named Hodgeson. Bucky hates him on sight for no other reason than that he is not Steve. The idiot made a name for himself, joining Colonel Bendetsen's 'One drop of blood'-campaign for the internment of Japanese-Americans. Bucky thinks of Jim, and how he loved a place called Joshua Tree and could wax poetic about the sun setting over Fresno. Hell, Jim Morita was more American than Bucky is now, after seventy years of Russia in his soul. He checks the entire exhibit but there's nothing more on the Super Soldier program. Hodgeson never made it to the European theatre. Bucky suspects he became a lab rat, just like the brass back then had planned for Steve. 

And then he's sitting on a bench in a darkened room, watching a documentary. It's Peggy talking about the rescue of the "man who would later become my husband" – belatedly Bucky realizes she means Gabe – and how she and Howard Stark had discovered the prisoners in Azzano on a surveillance flight. The two of them practically forced Colonel Philips to move in with a battalion of trained men who would later become the army division supporting the Howling Commandos. 

The last wall has been painted black and there, Bucky sees his own face, much like in the Smithsonian exhibit. It's even the same black and white picture of him. He looks like a movie star from the thirties. After a year of therapy, Bucky can admit that he was a handsome fella once (before the war, before Hydra). But he never looked quite the tragic romantic hero the picture makes him out to be. He stands before the wall and the accompanying words, and is reminded of the first time he read his name, his real name, again.

> **A Fallen Comrade  
>  James Barnes**  
>  1917–1944
> 
> _Brooklyn-born James Barnes enlisted in the Army to become the member of an elite, highly trained unit that set standards in the US military for decades to come._
> 
> Born in 1916, Barnes grew up the oldest child of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Fort McCoy, Wisconsin, Barnes and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation and torture. But his will was strong. His prison camp was liberated by S.S.R. Agent Margaret Carter and weapons contractor Howard Stark, the two individuals who would later found SHIELD.
> 
> Barnes and an interracial group of his fellow prisoners formed the infamous Howling Commandos. Barnes’ marksmanship was invaluable to the war effort and his team destroyed Hydra bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theater. He was killed in action during the winter of 1944, the only Howling Commando to sacrifice his life in the Great War.

Bucky suspects there are just as many lies and half-truths in this text as there are in the one in the Smithsonian exhibit. He squints at the plate, and seriously, even _here_ they cannot fucking settle on which year he was born? Bucky needs to talk to this James guy, and perhaps the two of them can, for all the dimensions out there, convince the world that Sergeant fucking Barnes was born in the year of the Lord 1917! But when he considers the exhibit as a whole, one thing is clear: The story of the Winter Soldier has not become public knowledge in this dimension, either. _Killed in action._ James Barnes is just as dead to his world as Bucky is to his. 

When he's ready to leave, he smiles at the guard who's still watching him very closely. So closely, in fact, that Bucky wonders whether she's recognized him. He's clean-shaven now, and it makes his face look even more like the dead hero on the wall. But then she returns his smiles and focuses on the ruckus a visiting school-class is making in the next room. 

Bucky looks around one last time. There's no mention of a Steven Rogers in the whole exhibit, there's no wooden shield, no leather jacket. Not a word about the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan. 

Sunlight streams in through the tall windows, the room is airy and bright. But Bucky still searches for a white star painted on a shield or woven into the breast-plate of a uniform. He cannot help feel something's horribly amiss. He cannot imagine living in a world without Steve. And he wonders how James does it.

★

  



	2. Chapter 2

★

Bucky is in the elevator that brings him up to his and Steve's floor. James' floor, he should say. Stark told him to use it for now, "seeing as you _are_ James for all practical purposes, and I am sure he is using your wine glasses for target practice as we speak." Bucky tries to remember if there are any wine glasses in their kitchen at home. 

"Good evening, Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS's voice greets him from below the ceiling.

Out of habit Bucky checks for the minute speakers hidden in the black-on-white pattern above.

"Hi," he says. "Any news on the D-beamer?" 

"Unfortunately not." JARVIS makes a polite pause but it's clear he has a message for Bucky. "Mr. Stark asks you to come by his lab at 0900. For the chip update." 

So Stark wants him to have the new chip in the arm, even when Bucky will be gone in a day or two. "Thank you, JARVIS. Tell Stark I'll be there at nine." 

"I will, Sergeant. Have a good night, Sir."

Something niggles in the back of Bucky's brain but before he can pin it down, the elevator comes to a smooth halt. The door slides open and Nat steps in.

She flashes him a Widow's grin. There comes no greeting from JARVIS. Bucky is quite certain Nat has been in another elevator just moments ago.

"So what's on..." He looks up to where the floor numbers are displayed in a gleaming white. "Floor number 53?"

"Human Resources." She doesn't pause to think. "Maria's office has a great view all the way down to the end of Fifth Avenue."

Bucky took the scenic route back from the museum through Central Park. And having a view of Fifth Avenue means you have an eye on all of the Central Park exits leading to the Tower. Nat's been waiting for him.

The two of them have never beaten around the bush. "What do you want to know, Nat?" Bucky asks. With a barely noticeable quiver the elevator starts moving upward again.

She turns her right hand slightly inward, and he can tell she meant to say something else, but his words have taken her aback. "James never calls me Nat," she says.

Oh. "What does he call you?"

"Tasha."

Never in his long life has Bucky thought of Nat as _Tasha_. It's what the Russians would say but back in the Red Room she went by Natalya. He's starting to wonder what their history is in this dimension, and whether they are close at all. 

"James..." The name feels like he's talking about a stranger. "Do you know that he has a middle name?" 

Again the slight inward turn of her hand; he managed to throw Nat off, twice in the span of a minute. Bucky allows himself a secret smile. It makes sense now why the museum exhibit never mentioned his full name.

"He doesn't have one, I don't think." 

"Actually, he does. It's Buchanan."

Nat's grin is a mile wide. Shit. He can't believe he let himself forget how this century feels about naming kids after long dead presidents. 

"Seriously? And you... Oh my God, you're not called James where you come from. What is it? Buck, Buckaroo, oh, oh, I know: You're called Bucky!"

Fucking Widow. He's gotten sloppy, giving up his name so fast. Rule Number Seven in the International Book of Spies: Never let the enemy know your true name. And there he handed it to a fucking Widow in no time at all. "Is it okay if I call you Nat? Tasha reminds me of Siberia."

"It's okay, _Bucky_ , no problem at all." He swears he can count all her perfect white teeth, she's grinning so hard. "Is it okay if _I_ tell the others you're a Bucky?"

Bucky sighs and shrugs. "Don't tell Stark."

They exchange a knowing smile. "James calls him Tony here," Nat, no, _Tasha_ says. 

James and Stark must be close, perhaps even friends. It's not something Bucky can imagine. Stark has forgiven him, or at least Pepper says he did. But the death of Stark's parents will always stand between them. Perhaps, _perhaps_ , in this world, the Winter Soldier has never killed Howard and Maria Stark. Bucky is looking at the dark surface of the floor. Tasha is silent, she doesn't move. They could be strangers, meeting just for an elevator ride.

Bucky has the distinct feeling the elevator takes much longer going up than going down. When he left the Tower earlier, he was down in the foyer and outside within minutes. 

"So," Tasha (not Nat) finally says, "you and this... Steve?"

Ah. This is where the conversation is headed. He raises his chin. "Yes," he says, and the words he's been missing in the history exhibit tumble out of him. " _Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield._ "

Tasha's eyes go soft. "And in bed, I assume?"

"You assume right."

"You're lucky," she says, and Nat at home never talks about things like luck and love. 

She's a spy through and through. Other people's relationships, they're only of interest to her when she wants to know about personal attachments that she can exploit. Bucky wonders if this is why she asks. But there is the way she acted around Clint in the lab.

"Is James...?" _Gay_ , Bucky means, because he cannot see how any incarnation of him could be straight. 

"I guess." Tasha shrugs and watches him. "It's not as if he's ever brought someone to the Tower."

"And you and me? Did we...? In the Red Room?" For some reason Bucky has a hard time saying words like _fuck_ right now. He sounds like a blushing virgin. 

But the way Tasha looks at him...They had _not_ slept with each other!

She still watches him but no longer like a spy. She moves her right hand inward again. In his mind, Bucky catalogues the gesture as a _Tasha tell_. She's never even considered the two of them, together. All those years of torture and training, and Black Widow and Winter Soldier had never come that close. 

But Tasha quickly regains her composure and Bucky finds himself the object a different kind of scrutiny. She is not shy about it either and lets her green gaze wander down his chest and lower, over the soft bulge in his jeans.

Bucky clears his throat. "Gay," he says, and more to the point, "and with Steve. Exclusively," he feels the need to add.

And there it is again, the Widow's grin. "Just checking you out. I'm with Clint."

"No shit."

They both look up at the gleaming numbers. The elevator's moving from floor 76 to 77.

"Is she with Clint, too," Tasha asks, "in your world?"

"Getting there, I think. They are very close. He brought her in. Did he, here, too?

She nods. Such ties are strong. Bucky doesn't know the full story of how Nat broke free from the Red Room and ended up with the Avengers; they never talked about it. But he knows that without Clint, Nat would not have made it.

With the softest quiver, the elevator comes to a hold and the door slides open. It's his and Steve's hallway, the walls are a familiar muted green. Bucky can see the metal security door to their apartment.

"Floor number 83," JARVIS announces. "Sergeant Barnes, this is where Sergeant James Barnes has his quarters. Agent Romanov, shall I take you up to your floor?"

"A minute, JARVIS," Tasha says.

Bucky steps into the hallway and turns around, to wish Tasha a good night. But she followed him, stands right in front of him, she brushes his hair away and brings her mouth to his ear.

" _Sputnik._ "

Bucky shoves her back into the elevator, hard; he retreats a step into the hallway. He can barely stop himself from slipping out the knives. He's shaking. Normally he'd adjust to such a situation within the fraction of a second but Tasha caught him with his guard down. He knows her, knows her history, and yet he trusted her. He wants to slap himself.

She watches him. He watches her. She stands upright in the elevator; her red hair gleams in the bright light.

"What the fuck was that?" Bucky hisses.

"An experiment." Tasha is all business. "JARVIS, you may take me up to my floor now."

"Very well, Agent Romanov." 

The door is sliding close when Bucky puts his boot between it and the metal elevator frame. "Hold it, JARVIS," he says, and the door quietly opens again.

Nat – _Tasha_ , he reminds himself – gives him her sweetest smile yet. 

"A shut-down command." Bucky is certain of it.

She nods with a glint in her eyes.

"An old one, from the Red Room." Not from Pierce. Pierce would have never used a Russian word to overpower the Winter Soldier.

She nods again.

"And it works on him?"

A third nod. "I'm sure you understand why I needed to test it on you."

"I don't think such a command exists where I come from. Sputnik? I've never heard of it." 

"James doesn't know it, either." The look she shoots him is serious for once, all the earlier playfulness gone. "And I would appreciate it if we could keep this little secret between ourselves."

Between them and JARVIS. Bucky looks up to the ceiling, takes in the pattern of miniscule black dots on white. 0900, he suddenly remembers, and that he has never heard JARVIS use military time before. Too British, too polite. The AI was never army but always Stark's.

"Did you ever have to use that command on him? To stop him? Since Project Insight?"

Tasha moves her right hand, and Bucky can tell she's debating whether to tell him or not. Which is answer enough.

★

The door to the apartment is brushed metal on the outside. On the inside it's solid steel and locked by heavy-duty bolts. Not even Stark knows the security code. At least Bucky _thinks_ that Stark doesn't know it. It's a random combination of letters and numbers. Steve suggested their birthdates and grandmothers' maiden names, but Bucky would have none of it. He is, after all, in charge of Tower Security. Steve winced when he told him their code but Bucky only had to tell him once. Eidetic memory comes in handy when you have to remember a random 34-digit passcode. 

Of course, at home the code doesn't matter; JARVIS simply opens the door for them. But here, the door stays closed when Bucky approaches. He considers asking JARVIS to open it, but then – this may be one of his tests. Does this other-dimension Sergeant Barnes know James' code or not? Bucky himself wonders whether the codes are the same. 

The touch pad is programed for the fingers of his right hand. He types in the code, and yep – with a soft click the bolts on the inside are sliding to the side. The door opens in eerie silence. He steps inside and the door falls closed behind him without a sound. The entry area looks empty, pretty much like it does in Bucky's world. He and Steve don't stay in Steve's Tower apartment often enough to leave jackets and shoes lying around. Instinctively he turns right where the hallway opens into the living room.

The sky beyond the windows is on fire; night clouds are at war with the last red of the sun. James' living room is a wide stretch of pinewood parquet, the same wood that is underneath the carpets in Steve's living room in the Tower. 

But this room is utterly bare. For a moment Bucky misses the light blue of the couch and the red stripe of a runner at the side of it. But something within him finds the empty room soothing. All the sightlines are clearly visible, the exits easy to access and secure. There is no couch, no table, no chairs. There is no TV in the room. A mat is lying directly at the window – it looks like the mats Bruce uses for yoga exercises. This one is large enough for a man of Bucky's size. Its beige-brown camouflage pattern would make it invisible – in a desert. 

Yes, the Winter Soldier would sit on this mat, M4A1 propped up on his thigh and knee, the city underneath him. From here, one can see anyone and anything approaching the Tower, front entrance, service entrance at the side, even helicopters landing on top of the building. Bucky imagines how the unfathomable James loves to watch the city at night. He finds himself looking forward to when it's only him and the darkness, in this large, empty room.

But first he snoops around. The layout of the floor is exactly the same as in Steve's Captain America apartment: the huge living room taking up at least a third of the space, six bedrooms, all with adjacent bathrooms, a large kitchen and a kitchenette in the back, several storage rooms and closets. 

The master bedroom is empty. The giant bed looks untouched. Instead, James inhabits the smallest bedroom, the one near the kitchenette. There, Bucky discovers his favorite bright red mug, a gift from Nat. An old-fashioned percolator is standing on the counter, there's a bag of ground coffee beans. No milk, no food, the fridge is all but empty. But clearly, these are the rooms where James is spending his everyday life. And it makes sense. Here is the back door of the apartment, leading to the stairwell that goes up all the way from the service entrance to the roof. In case of an attack on the Tower, it's the only secure route of escape.

Steve's stuff is missing from the bathroom but Bucky discovers his own old-fashioned shaving cream. There are almost no dishes in the kitchen, no pots, no pans – Bucky doubts James often eats here. He finds a pair of wooden chopsticks exactly like the ones he likes to use, and a nice set of cooking knives. Six expensive-looking wine glasses are hiding in the cupboard. A gift from Stark – Bucky would bet his life on it.

Tucked between James' bedroom and the kitchenette, there's a larger, windowless storage room. Stepping into it, Bucky is hit by the familiar smell of rifle oil and dust. An old-fashioned date book lies on a desk. Bucky quickly scans the pages. Birthday reminders, appointments and – wow, James is seeing a counselor twice a week. A bit excessive. Bucky hated every minute of therapy. But he really has no idea about James' state of mind. 

One wall is covered with bookshelves. A lot of Russian novels, a lot of science fiction pulps, a few books on programming and building security. Bucky, too, owns every single one of these books, down to the leather-bound tomes of _The Brothers Karamasov_. But on their shelves at home, Steve's history and art books are mixed in with the lot. He methodically takes out one book after the other. Hidden behind the top row he finds his old notebooks. They are full of every confused memory he dug out of his muddled brain, in those long months when he was living on the streets. Steve doesn't know these notebooks exist, and if Bucky can help it, he never will. In his own dimension, he has them stored in a safety deposit box in a bank far away from home. 

"JARVIS?"

"Yes, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Does James have a safety deposit box at Cleveland National?" It isn't exactly classified information. And it can't hurt to ask.

"No, Sir."

No surprise here. "Any other storage facilities outside of the Tower?"

"As much as I can ascertain, no."

"Thanks."

On the other side of the room stands the obligatory weapons' cabinet. Its lock is voice-activated, and when Bucky says the password, it opens just like their cabinet at home. Bucky checks the weapons. The only ones missing are the combat knives currently strapped to his left calf and right arm. He always has the Mark II on his body; he never locks it away. There's the Tower's security protocol, and there's plain stupidity. Speaking of which, Bucky leaves the room and starts a weapons' search.

He finds the M4 Carbine at the backdoor; the Glock is neatly taped to the wall behind the bathroom mirror. These are the Winter Soldier's standard guns. And while Bucky would never part with a Glock he's worked with for so many years, at home his M4 and all the other rifles are safely locked away. The weapons in James' bedroom are where Bucky hides his own too: the SIG underneath the pillow, one of his favorite Tanto blades between the mattress and the frame of the bed. The other blade is missing. He usually hides it between the bed and the wall. When he checks, the wood is a bit sticky with the remnants of duct tape. James must have removed the Tanto blade. There's a stash of ammunition in the nightstand. When Bucky lies down on the bed and feels around surreptitiously, he finds the garrote not even JARVIS knows about. 

Bucky looks up at the ceiling and again checks for the miniscule speakers. They're imperceptible here, with the sunset casting the ceiling in a soft orange light. In his early days in the Tower, he took apart the rooms, searching for the nuts and bolts of what he thought back then was a fancy communications system. Now, Bucky has access to the building's floor plans, and he knows that JARVIS, its ears and mouths, are hidden underneath a plaster surface. JARVIS himself is so deeply embedded into the bones of the Tower that it's impossible to take him out. Stark designed the building like an armor – an immobile, tower-sized, infinitely more complex and more comfortable version of his Iron Man suits. 

It's one of the reasons why Bucky will not live in the Tower. For seventy year, he was under surveillance every moment of his life. He needs space to breathe, alone time, a place without eyes on him. But he always thought that without him, Steve would have stayed here, with the Avengers. He thought that Steve moved to Brighton Beach only because of _him_. Now it hits him that it was Steve who insisted they needed a garden. It was Steve who declared he needed to hear the street noises to feel at home. It was Steve who ultimately refused to trade their privacy for safety. Whereas for Bucky, their small garden is a convenient escape route. He likes living at street-level because it means he can jump out of a window and vanish in the crowds. It's obvious that for James, in this dimension, it's all about safety. Privacy is not a high-priority concern, for neither of them. 

He looks up at the ceiling where the orange light is slowly taken over by shadows.

"JARVIS, is my weapons' check complete? What'd I miss?"

"There is a grenade launcher in the closet at the main entrance to the apartment. I have a list of places where Sergeant James Barnes keeps the grenades. Do you want me to read it to you?"

"Please don't." Bucky inherited his fair share of paranoia from his Winter Soldier days but James is in a whole different league. "How many grenades are in the apartment?"

"Twenty-three, Sergeant."

Bucky rolls his eyes at his other-dimension self. Stark's Tower is one of the safest buildings in the world, among the top five, by Bucky's informed estimate, and that is accounting for the security aftermath of 9/11 _and_ the Chitauri attack on New York. But it suddenly makes a lot more sense that James sees a counselor twice a week. 

"Anything else?" he asks.

"There is a steel garrote hidden below the sheets of the bed, Sergeant."

 _Shit._ Bucky suppresses the urge to move the metal hand from where it's resting on the outline of the garrote.

"Did you see me check for it?" JARVIS is programed to be very forthcoming about how he arrives at information. People think it's Stark's personality coming through in the programing but in fact it's a security measure. JARVIS should have told him how he knows about the garrote. 

"I did, Sergeant. But I was aware of it before. Sergeant James Barnes never made any attempts to hide weapons in the Tower from me."

Here it is, the unprompted explanation. And okay, this JARVIS is... sneakier, Bucky thinks. More intelligent, Stark would probably put it. It's one of those rare moments when Bucky wishes Stark was with him so he could tell Bucky what he thinks of this version of his AI. 

The room is lying in comfortable darkness, with a silvery gleam on the walls from the city outside. Bucky takes off his shirt, lies down again and pushes deeper into the pillow that smells like – him. Okay then: time to put this more intelligent, sneakier JARVIS to work. 

"JARVIS, is there a Steve Rogers employed in janitorial?"

"No, Sergeant Barnes."

Again the protracted silence when JARVIS should be giving him more information. The Stark here must have programed the AI differently than at home.

"Give me a list of all Tower employees with the first name Steve." Bucky still isn't sure whether this morning's meeting in Stark's lab was just a hallucination. But he cannot accept that Steve is not _here_ , he just can't. And the little janitor guy is all he's got. 

"Certainly. There are currently a Steve Blum, a Stepano Hernandez, Stefan Meyers, Steven Proctor, and a Steven Van Dyke in Mr. Stark's employ. Doctor Stephen Strange often visits the Tower, but he is not an employee and currently not in residence."

This doctor named Strange again. None of the other names ring any bells. "JARVIS, how many Steve Rogers are currently living in New York?“

"114, Sergeant. Not counting unlisted numbers and residents who have their middle name listed in the city directory."

Bucky is torn between a chuckle and a sigh. It's just his luck that Steve has one of the most common names in – wait. "Do any of the Steves in Stark's employ have a middle name?"

There's a minimal delay, then JARVIS says, "It appears that three of them do. Dr. Strange's middle name is Vincent."

Bucky rolls his eyes. If he never hears about this Strange character again it will be too soon. "Please list only employees with their middle names."

"Stefan Ralph Meyers, Steven Grant Proctor. And Steve L. Blum. I am unable to determine what the L stands for, Sergeant."

Bucky is out of the bed and putting on his shirt before JARVIS has finished his sentence. It is too much of a coincidence, even when the last name doesn't fit. And _Proctor_ doesn't sound wholly unfamiliar, either. The name reminds Bucky of a family who lived a couple of blocks from them back in Brooklyn.

"Fuck, why didn't you tell me about this Steven Grant right away? You knew who I was looking for." JARVIS is off, and it's the second thing fundamentally wrong with this world. Bucky's already in his boots and at the door. He'll eat his metal arm if his little janitor guy and Steven Grant, Proctor notwithstanding, aren't the same person. And if the little guy was working graveyard last night, chances are he's in the building right now. "Give me the current location of Steven Grant Proctor, JARVIS."

"Mr. Proctor is currently in the staff room."

 _Knew it._ Bucky's out of the apartment, heading towards the elevator.

"I was not aware you were looking for a Steve, middle name Grant, Sergeant. I apologize for any misunderstandings my ignorance may have caused."

Right. Bucky punches the button for the elevator, and while he's waiting he recalls all the conversations he's had in this dimension. Shit, JARVIS is right. He never mentioned Steve's middle name. It is just so... so unbelievable that nobody here would know it when in his world _Steven Grant Rogers_ is a household name.

"I am sorry, JARVIS. I keep forgetting I'm in another dimension." 

The elevator pings and the door is sliding open. There is a sense of _apology accepted_ in the air that feels utterly familiar. Bucky has no idea how Stark does it, and it's likely half imagined, but _this_ is the JARVIS he knows – a real personality programed into the static and into the way the air is shifting around Bucky. 

He steps into the elevator and stares at the panel on the wall. 

"The room of the cleaning staff is on floor 31, Sergeant," JARVIS says helpfully, and Bucky presses the button with a smile.

★

There's a thermos on the table; a cup of tea stands beside it. The scent filling the room smells like home. It's sage tea, the real stuff made from loose dried leaves and not from crumbs in a bag. 

With the smell comes a memory, so vivid that Bucky wonders how he could have forgotten it. And hell, _of course_ he knows how – but this one doesn't feel as if Hydra burned it out of him. It's old, from Brooklyn, from before when Steve's mom died. It had been summer, raining, a Saturday night, and Steve was sick, so Bucky stopped by. He held a bouquet of sweet peas for the girl he was going out with, and a bag of sage leaves – for Steve from the Barnes' back yard. There'd been a misunderstanding – Steve thinking the flowers were for him, and Bucky realizing he'd handed him the bouquet when he'd meant to give him the tea. The memory comes with a tangled web of feelings: the awkwardness, the blush rising in Steve's face, the long seconds of silence until Bucky caught himself with a laugh and a smart remark. Did he ask Steve to give him back the bouquet? He doesn't remember, which is so odd when he still has the scent of the flowers in his nose.

Bucky leans against the open door to the staff room. Steven Grant Proctor stands with his back to him. He's putting on the blue work overalls Bucky saw him in this morning. Underneath he wears a bright green t-shirt. A pair of pink sneakers is lying on the floor. His hair is longer than Steve's has ever been. Back in their time, they had their hair trimmed on Sunday mornings, at Mancinelli's before church. 

”Stevie," he whispers. He can't help himself.

Stevie spins around, hands already up and ready for a fight. 

"Don't call me that," he hisses, and shit, that's another thing Bucky has forgotten: Steve _hated_ being called Stevie. 

"James? Man. I don't believe this." Steve – little Steve, Steven, Steven Grant? – rolls his eyes, fastens the straps of the overalls and stomps towards Bucky in rainbow-colored socks. "What are you doing here? I'm just –" 

He stops mid-stomp and cocks his head in a way that's utterly familiar.

"You," he says slowly, "are not James."

"Not quite." Bucky feels the need to show this guy he's coming unarmed, as a friend. He raises his open hands.

Steve takes a good look at the metal arm, then focuses on Bucky's face. "Well, not-quite-James, whoever you are: My name is not fucking _Stevie_."

Bucky takes a step forward, a small one; he doesn't want to intrude into this guy's space. He'd always known, from the very first moment they met, that you better not fuck with Steve. 

"Sorry," he says. "I'm Bucky." He's holding out his right hand. "James Buchanan Barnes."

There's a glint in Steve's eyes. He's clearly storing away that information for later when he's sure this James lookalike can take the ribbing he's going to give him for his presidential middle name.

"I'm Steven," little Steve tells him, taking his hand. "All right," and now he's the one stepping into Bucky's space with his multi-colored socks, and isn't that exactly how it's always been between the two of them? "Who are you and where the fuck is James?"

★


	3. Chapter 3

★

First, they talk at the door, Steven's chin belligerently raised to the height of Bucky's chest. Then they sit at the table and Steven offers him a cup of sage tea, hot, no sugar, just the pure, bitter taste of the herb. He accepts the miracle that Bucky is from another dimension as a matter of fact. Perhaps it's because he works in Avengers' Tower for Tony Stark, and knows all the shit his boss is experimenting on. But it's the same at home: people's sense of what is possible and what is science-fiction has drastically changed after the Chitauri attack. 

Steven seems to be mostly concerned about where James is now, how he is doing, and when will he come back?

"The problem is not James getting back," Bucky says. There is a functioning D-beamer in his dimension, after all. 

"I get it." Steven nods. "Right now this dimension-jumping thing is a one-way street."

He's smart, this Steven, not that Bucky doubted it. Steve's smarts never had anything to do with the serum. 

"Stark, your Tony Stark here, is working on a D-beamer right now," Bucky says. "When he's done inventing it, I'll go back to my dimension and whoosh, you'll have James back." At least it's what Bucky hopes will happen. If not, he's fucked. 

"But if there's a D-beamer in your world, why are your people not sending James home? Then you'd be back in your world, and everybody will be where they belong. Right?" 

See, smart. Smarter than Bucky, for sure. "Right," he says, and okay, Bucky has been wondering why Stark hasn't long sent James back. 

But Bucky's been preoccupied with this dimension, with finding Steve. Now he thinks of the zap and the electric current fizzling up his metal arm when he touched the D-beamer. Either he's broken the damn thing and Stark is taking his sweet time repairing it. Or James is the problem. Bucky cannot imagine James sitting placidly in a lab chair and talking it out with the Avengers. Shit. The Winter Soldier would have broken loose in no time and killed everybody in the room. _Shit._

He clearly hasn't given enough thought to how James is faring. But he knows that Steve is taking care of him. Once James is over the shock of meeting the tall, Dorito-shaped version of his little janitor guy. Once he believes that Steve is from the same period in time as he is. Once he gets that Steve is the leader of the Avengers and, okay, his lover. Once he meets Captain America and... oh my God. Bucky has to stop imagining the mess he's left at home. He should've never touched the device, he should've never ...

"James is not like you." Steven fiddles with the cap of the thermos. 

"No shit," Bucky mumbles, and Steven's head snaps up.

"I just mean," Bucky cradles the warm mug in his hands, "I've been in his apartment. It's like a fortress up there. Highly secured, I mean." 

Does Steven even know about the Winter Soldier? Bucky doesn't get the impression they are close, not like he and Steve were before the war: _best friends since childhood_ and secretly in love with each other. 

"I've never been to his place," Steve says with maybe a touch of regret, Bucky can't tell. "He comes down most nights when I am working. We drink tea." He gestures towards their cups and laughs. 

It's a shy little laugh Bucky has not heard in a long time. Golden earrings glitter in both of Steven's ears, and if the pink sneakers weren't a dead give-away, the rainbow-colored socks make it abundantly clear that Steven Grant Proctor is gay. Proud and gay. Gay and out.

Bucky never thought to suspect, much less ask, what little Stevie Rogers actually did on those nights he spent at the Socialist Artists' Guild. Knowing Steve, he was planning the next revolution. Steve was always the political one while Bucky was flirting with the dames and secretly fucking sailors at the docks. 

But another one of those memories comes out of nowhere, not repressed by Hydra but buried in those long years: Stevie on the steps of the Guild Building late at night, in his best suit that was still too large on him. And standing close, another man. A blond, good-looking chap in a black suit with a perfect fit. Bucky cradles the mug while he fights a rush of jealousy. This was their life before the war, before Steve volunteered to be a guinea pig for the fucking US Army (no, he will never let this one go) – closer than best friends, but well, not entirely inseparable. There were things between them they never talked about. It's a bit of a private joke for him and Steve today. But fact is: he has no idea if Steve had been sleeping with men back then.

"You served in Afghanistan, didn't you?"

Bucky quickly moves his hands away from the mug. "What?"

Steven screws the cap of the thermos tight. "You and James, you lost your arm in Afghanistan, didn't you?" Like before, his eyes linger on the metal arm. Bucky is grateful for it. Usually strangers take one glance and then treat his arm like an embarrassment never to be looked at again.

"Yes," he says. Afghanistan's always a good cover story. And it's not his job to tell Steven about the Winter Soldier. 

Steven nods. His slender hand is still on the thermos. "James never told me. He doesn't talk about himself." He purses his lips. "He doesn't talk much. Period."

He looks up, and they share a knowing smile. It's too bad Bucky will never meet James Barnes. Because, seriously, how is he not head over heels for this little guy? 

"But I keep wondering." Steven moves the thermos towards himself. "Two of my friends are vets. They served two tours in Afghanistan. Back when Don't Ask Don't Tell meant you weren't eligible for VA loans if you came out after active service." He rubs a thumb across the thermos' camouflage green. 

He's waiting, giving Bucky a chance to respond to the gay thing. In his shoes Bucky would do the same. It's a time-honored strategy among queers, and Bucky can testify to the _time-honored_ because while much has changed in this brave new world, _this_ has not. 

"DADT has been a shitty deal, from the start. Used to vote for Clinton," well, he would have voted for Clinton if there had been absentee voting in Siberia, "but DADT was blue discharges all over again. And now with the orange menace in the White House... " He shrugs but keeps going because this feels familiar, so much like their discussions at home when Sam comes to visit and they sit on the large couch and talk politics. "Steve and me testified twice now at the hearings of the fucking subcommittee for transgender army personnel. You would think that Captai–" 

"Mr. Proctor," JARVIS cuts in, voice British and smooth, "may I remind you that your shift has started seventeen minutes ago." 

Steven shoots up from the chair and almost drops the thermos. "Yes, Sir." He reaches for a pair of ratty work boots and puts them in. "Sorry, I'll stay longer to make up for the time."

 _Sir?_ Jesus. What _has_ Stark done to JARVIS? 

"JARVIS, voice off," Bucky says, and Steven stares at him for a moment, then mouths _Don't_ at him.

"Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS says, "my sincere apologies, but you are not authorized to interfere with the work hours of Mr. Stark's employees."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on. Cut out the bullshit." JARVIS is such a fucking prick in this dimension. 

But Steven shakes his head and nods towards the door. He quickly puts his pink sneakers on top of a rack and slips a plastic ID card around his neck. Then he disappears in what Bucky assumes is a storage room. A few moments later he returns with a cleaning trolley. There's a huge waste bin and several buckets for mopping; on top there's a dozen cleaners and a bunch of cleaning rags. He waves Bucky along as he pushes the trolley out into the corridor.

Right. Bucky gets up. He doesn't even have time to finish his tea. "You owe me," he mutters towards the ceiling. JARVIS replies with deafening silence. 

"What the fuck was –"

"Nothing," Steven says. He walks briskly, pushing the trolley away from the elevator Bucky used, in the direction of – yep, there's a service elevator in the back. On the way there, they'll pass the personnel bathrooms. Opposite is a broad column and behind it a nook in the wall. It's a blind spot outside of viewing range of JARVIS's camera eyes. Installing an additional camera has been on Bucky's list for years. That's were they headed, he's sure of it. For some reason Steven does not want to talk about JARVIS when JARVIS is watching, and okay, Bucky gets it, the little guy is afraid for his job. What he doesn't get is why Stark is such a dick of an employer in this world. 

The trolley looks heavy and he steps beside Steven to help him push the damn thing. It _is_ fucking heavy. Steven's breathing sounds normal, but he shouldn't be working in maintenance. Too physically demanding, too much exposure to chemicals. They walk side by side, and Bucky glances over. Up close, he can see a hearing aid behind Steven's ear. It's tiny and almost invisible, a slender device made of translucent plastic. Such hearing aids are expensive. Bucky knows because Clint told him. Stark, he thinks. He can't imagine this kind of state-of-the-art hearing aids are covered by MediCare. 

"Should you be working a cleaning job?" he says before he can stop himself. "What with your asthma and the scoliosis?"

Steven stumbles. He catches himself quickly, but Bucky already has him by the arm. At once, Steven shakes him off. 

"Don't touch me!" he snarls. "How do you know my medical history? It's confidential." He stops the trolley with a practiced kick to the wheel, and turns to face Bucky. 

Well, isn't it obvious? Bucky takes a small step back. "In my world, me and Steve are friends –"

"And your Steven is like me?" 

Well, what did he think? Not so smart, after all, this little guy. Or maybe not smart when it's about his body and its endless history of illnesses. 

"Not quite," he says. 

The trolley gets another kick to its wheel. "Thought so," Steven mutters and starts pushing the thing again.

Bucky sighs and puts his hands, metal and flesh, beside Steven's. They are the same size as his, slender, bony, large for such a small man. "You have no idea," Bucky says, and fuck it. He pushes the trolley, and as they walk along the corridor, he tells Steven about _Steve_. He tells him about Steven Grant Rogers. 

He tells him about the serum, about Steve letting the Army experiment on him. To do good, Bucky says, and a light comes into Steven's eyes. Bucky hopes and prays that nobody ever offers this guy the chance to let the military mess with him. He doesn't give him Steve's exact measurements, but he says, _big, healthy, fit_. He drops words like _increased healing factor_ , he even mentions _super soldier_ at one point. He tells Steven that in Bucky's world, Steve is a member of the Avengers.

He skips over the age thing; it tends to freak people out when they realize they're talking to a centenarian. He doesn't mention Captain America. It's not that he thinks Steven will react the way Stark did. But he... Okay, the truth is Bucky just knows there's a fighter in any Steve, not matter which universe. Just look at the guy: all bristle and spite, in an endearing, spitfire kind of way. Given the chance and the right cause, this Steven would not hesitate to snatch up the Shield. And Bucky, who wants to bury the fucking thing in the Potomac, will have nothing to do with bringing another Steve into the fold. Stark, Fury, what's left of SHIELD here – he doesn't want them to get this little guy, ever. 

When Bucky's come to the end of his tale, they push the trolley in silence for a while. It's quite a ways to the service elevator, and Bucky stares at their hands again. There's green in the cuticles of Steven's fingers, and a blue smear on the knuckles of his right hand. 

"So, you and Steve," Steven says very softly. JARVIS can pick up every word they're saying but Bucky understands: it feels more intimate to whisper. And he eye-rolls at himself. Of course a smart guy like Steven would pick up on _him and Steve_.

So he nods and smiles. It's the smile that makes him look like a goofball, if you ask Sam. But he's given up on not letting himself feel it, not after all this time. Yes, _he and Steve_. "Took us a few years," he says, the understatement of the century. "But we're together now. Have our own place, over in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach," he adds.

The mention of Brooklyn puts a smile of Steven's face. "My studio is in Gowanus. It's a shitty neighborhood but I love my space." His smile is dazzling, and Bucky has no memory of Steve ever smiling quite like this. It's beautiful. 

"Pizza Market," Bucky says, and they both sigh appreciatively. "Sicilian," Bucky goes, and Steve says, "the meatballs," and they grin at each other like idiots.

So they talk about Brooklyn until they're about to pass the column with the nook. 

Bucky slows down, and Steven stops the trolley. He doesn't make any pretenses that this is not exactly what it looks like: them hiding from JARVIS's curious eyes. Steven shoves the trolley in front of the column and steps into the nook. Bucky half-expects some absurd commentary but for once, JARVIS keeps to himself. He follows Steven who leans against the wall. The nook is spotlessly clean. For the first time Bucky thinks about the people from maintenance, cleaning even such dark corners at all times. He cannot detect any signs of surveillance installed here. Which means nothing. You can see of JARVIS only what Stark wants you to see.

Steven pulls Bucky close and whispers in his ear, "The AI reads lips, and I don't want to get in trouble. Okay?"

Bucky nods. "Got it. I can't believe Stark is such an asshole, but I got it."

"James was never in Afghanistan, was he?"

Er. "I don't..." There Bucky thought Steve does not want to disclose his full medical condition to JARVIS, but... This is about James. Steve doesn't want to betray any secrets that _James_ might be keeping from JARVIS.

"You don't have to tell me," Steven says with a quick glance to the corridor. "Not here. Do you want to meet, Bucky? Outside of the Tower, I mean? I'd love to talk to you about James." 

"I don't know. I..." It's not his place to tell Steven about the Winter Soldier. It's fucking James' job.

"He's paying for my asthma treatment. He says it's on Mr. Stark's money but I know it comes out of his own pocket." 

Steve's mouth is small, lips pink and full like a sweet pea blossom. If Bucky were James, he'd pay good money to get Steven out of this fucking job. But he remembers how stubborn Steve was, how impossible it was to offer him any help. Bucky could bring tea as a gift but Steve would never accept medicine or food or, God forbid, a loan – anything that could be seen as charity. Steve just wouldn't have it. 

"I've..." Bucky starts, and well, he can tell Steven about himself, can't he? "At home I've got a veteran's pension." Back pay, really, but the point is: James has enough money to buy a whole asthma _clinic_ if he wants to. "And Stark pays a good wage."

Steven nods and glances towards the corridor again. And Bucky gets it: Steven should be working for the good wage Stark is paying him. 

"Let's meet outside the Tower," Bucky says.

Steven visibly relaxes and leans back against the wall. "I'll get off at six. Half past, today, to make up for – you know, having talked to you. Do you want to meet at my studio? Around nine? I need to shower and..." 

"I'll be there at nine," Bucky says at once. "Where do you live?"

Steven gives him the address; it's on the F line that ends on Coney Island. In his world, Bucky sometimes uses the F line to get home. 

Steven checks the time on his phone, says, "Shit, I really gotta work," and he turns around in the space between Bucky and the wall. "Sorry about the AI," he says. "But I don't want to end up on its bad side."

Bucky, who's never known there are sides to JARVIS, simply nods. When Steven passes him, he lets his hand fall lightly on Bucky's hip, unthinking, simply because they're close. The gesture feels so natural – and _this_ , Bucky thinks, this is how they are with each other. So there is a _Steven and James_ , after all, even when they are not lovers. 

"Wait," Bucky says, and Steven stops and looks at him. They are not five inches apart, and Bucky can smell the tea on Steven's breath. And just like this, the memories flood back – bright light on Stevie's hair, his face buried in sweet peas. Blue vase with the pink-purple bouquet on the table. Steve's ears all red, and the heat in Bucky's chest, knotted up with shame and fear, and yet, and yet –

"What?" Steven sounds impatient but also eager to hear what Bucky has to say. Just like Steve. So much like Steve. It makes Bucky's mouth go dry.

"Me and Steve," Bucky says and Steven nods. "We've only become lovers after the serum." Another nod, this one more perfunctory. Steven turns towards the trolley. "But I loved him before. And I think he loved me back. We just..." Times were different then, Bucky wants to say. But Steven believes that he and James are the same age. "It was never about his size, is what I mean. I've always loved Steve. Do I look like I care about asthma? His bad ear? His weird back? We made jokes about what colors he couldn't see. Color-blind, an artist, how stupid can things be, right? I've always loved Steve, is what I mean. And if I had any say in it, he would have never taken up the fucking Shi– ... I never wanted him to take the serum, is what I'm saying. But it was his choice."

Steven stares at him. Out in the corridor the service elevator pings. Someone is coming. Or JARVIS is giving them a not-so-subtle hint that Steven should get to work. 

Steven takes his hand away from Bucky's hip. "For the record," he says quietly, "I'm not color-blind. But it's not stupid for an artist. It could be the exact thing that makes their art original, a different view of the world, an unusual color scheme. I can't believe you and your Steve are making fun of people with different abilities."

Bucky raises his hands. "Sorry, I didn't –"

"But what I don't get at all," Steven steps even closer, no respect for Bucky's private space at all, "is how your Steve can be military. James hates the Army." His hand moves forward to find Bucky's hip but he catches himself mid-motion. "A _super soldier?_ " He shakes his head. "James won't even go on missions with the Avengers when the military's involved." 

He's intense, this close, but he still speaks very softly. Bucky's pretty sure this is what Steven won't talk about, with JARVIS listening in. And okay, Steven doesn't know shit about James' life. But Bucky can feel himself warming up towards this James guy. Hates the military? Well, Steven Grant Proctor, you don't know half of it.

"What?" Steven watches him, head half-cocked towards the corridor. There's another ping. JARVIS is getting impatient. 

"Steve doesn't much like the military, either," Bucky says. He'd love to talk more but... He glances pointedly towards the trolley.

Steven nods. "Yeah, I need to go." And just like this, he steps away. "See you in the morning, Bucky-buck." He winks and kicks the trolley's back wheel so hard the cleaners on top clatter around. 

Bucky leans back against the column and watches Steven push the trolley towards the service elevator. Such a small guy, and Steve at home would never wear such a bright green shirt. But he might, Bucky thinks, if he was born in another age and never had become a soldier. 

There's a sound as if JARVIS was clearing his throat. "Sergeant, may I remind you of your appointment with Mr. Stark at 0900?"

"You may, but I won't be there." Bucky pushes himself off the column. "Please let Stark know that I'll be in later for the chip update." 

"Of course, Sir." JARVIS' disapproval is loud and clear in the bland tone of his voice.

But Bucky doesn't care. Walking back the corridor, he's practicing dance steps to an old-fashioned melody he's not remembered in a long, long time.

★

Bucky sleeps for four hours, then he is fully awake again. Four hours used to be standard shut-eye time for the Winter Soldier whenever he was out of cryo. In Bucky's mind the song is still playing, the one from before the war. He only remembers this time in flashes – a Bowery bar, fried cauliflower in a bowl, Steve stuffing folded pages from the _Brooklyn Eagle_ into his shoes so they fit. He hums the melody as he exits James' apartment through the back door and climbs the stairwell up to the Tower roof. 

The helicopter platform is still lying in shadows. All around it, the roof is covered with raised beds of vegetation. The Tower runs on closed-loops systems, and its water supply comes from the rain filtered through the roof. Stark experiments with different kinds of plants for filtration; in the early light the beds look grey and brown. Bucky walks towards the Northern side of the roof. To one side lies Central Park, wrapped in twilight. Fifth Avenue has lost its night-time brilliance; the lights look like muted golden dots against the dark street. Traffic is steady but nothing compared to what it will be like in another hour. New York is never silent, but the electric hum of the city has quieted down.

Bucky turns east because he's not alone up here: Clint is sitting at the parapet, his back against the wall of a cooling unit. He looks unarmed. Threat level at ten percent. _Don't underestimate_ , Bucky's long years of training supply, and he raises the threat estimate to twenty. The eastern side of the roof is awash in the morning light. Clint is a black shape against the glare. Bucky can't make out his face to check whether he wants company. But as he turns to go back down to the apartment, Clint waves for him to join him.

"Thought you might come up," Clint says as Bucky sits down beside him.

"It's a great place this early in the day." The sky is clear like glass, and Bucky closes his eyes. "Quiet." What's left of the Winter Soldier doesn't like how open he leaves himself but Bucky's learned to trust his instincts more than the Soldier. Clint is a friend, here as much as at home.

"James is up every morning."

Bucky nods, eyes still closed. Orange spots flit back and forth on the inside of his eyelids. "You?"

"Often," Clint says. His voice is soft and relaxed. "When Tasha's not here. When she's here, we have breakfast in bed." A low chuckle. 

Bucky opens his eyes and squints against the light. A breeze has come up and ruffles his hair. He turns towards Clint and finds he's watching him.

"She told me that we are not together, in your dimension."

"Not yet," Bucky says. "You're friends, though. And very close." This better not be about what he told Tasha – that in his dimension they had been lovers back in Russia. But Clint, his Clint at least, has never been the jealous type.

Clint just nods and smiles a quiet, private smile. Bucky can detect no tension in his posture. _Threat level at twenty percent_ , the Winter Soldier reminds him. Clint is a marksman, just like him. His body can be relaxed even when he is on high alert.

"Have you been waiting up here for me?" he asks.

Back at home, on the roof of the house where he lives with Steve, rusty poles creak constantly. The loose door to the roof exit always clatters in the wind. On Avengers' Tower it's very quiet. Bucky can hear the wind move through the plants in the filtration bed nearby. 

"The Avengers are my responsibility." Clint keeps looking at him. 

It's not a challenge, Bucky realizes, it's not even between the two of them. It's the look of a sharpshooter, target on the bull's eye, but the gaze soft and wide for whatever is happening at the sidelines. Bucky struggles to not let it show just how much he wants to look away.

"I don't know how it is in your dimension but here the Avengers are my job. Not Stark's, not Tasha's – I give the orders here."

Bucky nods again. He has no idea where this is going.

"It means you're my responsibility. Or rather, James is." The corners of Clint's eyes crinkle. And Bucky can see the Clint he knows so well underneath this Clint who sounds a bit like a pompous ass with his talk of responsibility and him being the hotshot leader of the Avengers. 

"No problem, man," Bucky says. "I'll be out of your hair the second Stark has the D-beamer ready. You'll have James back in no time."

Clint settles against the low wall. There's a hint of hesitation in the movement, unconscious, Bucky is sure of it. But it says _weapon at the back_ loud and clear. Bucky is missing something and he doesn't know what.

"In your dimension," Clint says, "who's brought you in?" He adds, "B-bucky," with a bit of a stutter and then cracks up and laughs. 

The relief rushing through Bucky is warm like the sun. "You guys are just the worst."

"Sorry, mate," Clint goes. "Your name takes some getting used to. And who knows how long we'll have you around. Tony usually takes longer than he says he will."

Bucky sobers up at once. "Seriously?" he says. Stark is a fucking pain in the ass but he's famous for inventing, inventing from scratch, the most advanced shit overnight.

"Don't worry," Clint puts his hand on Bucky's thigh. "He'll get it done. Might just take a while."

Clint's nails are bitten to the quick. It's a bad habit he tries to shake. It's comforting to know that even when Clint is leading the Avengers he is biting his nails. There are calluses on his middle-finger, from drawing the bow on the left. A deep scar runs from the back of Clint's hand all the way across his wrist. There's something familiar about it but Bucky never saw this scar. Back at home, Clint never suffered a wound like this.

Clint takes the hand away. "Who brought you in, Bucky?"

"Nobody," Bucky says and it's the truth. Steve may have found him in Brighton Beach but in the end, it had been Bucky's choice to come to him. "Took me a few months until I was ready. Steve and Sam had been searching for me everywhere." Hell, he's still sorry about having sent them on so many wild-goose chases up and down the East Coast. A bit sorry. Not all that much sorry, not anymore. Sam will never let it go, of course, not until the day when the serum will finally let Bucky die.

"So you just showed up at Shield HQ, or what?"

"Shield?" Seriously? "The fuck no. Shield's all Hydra. You guys have figured this out, right?" Bucky's sitting up, just in case.

"Yes, of course." Clint has the courtesy to sound offended. "Shield's been taken down five years ago. For good. Fury made sure of it."

"I came here," Bucky says, "to the Tower. Steve had moved from Washington to New York, and he was living here. "I came to Steve." Waylaid him in Central Park, more like, on Steve's daily jogging route. As Bucky's watching the sun move across the roof, it hits him: How did James break away from Hydra? How did he even survive the Helicarriers? How was he brought in?

"It was Fury and me," Clint says. 

Bucky turns to him. Clint's back to watching him with the sharpshooter's wide gaze. "Yeah?"

"We had Rumlow's team tracked, and the trackers led us to the bank. James was there. I mean, the Winter Soldier was. He'd gone back there, after Tasha brought down the last of the Helicarriers." He stops to check whether Bucky even knows what he's talking about.

Bucky nods and says, "I never went back to the bank." His memories of that day are hazy at best (suppressed, his therapist said) but the Winter Soldier knew exactly where the bank was, and made fucking sure to not come near it.

"James did go back. Sat on that horror chair in his black armor. No mask, dripping wet. His weapons on the floor in front of him." Clint shoots Bucky a quick glance. The roof is still; even the sound of the wind in the vegetation beds died down. Bucky does not want to hear what's coming, he really doesn't. But Clint is right. He needs to hear it.

"He killed everyone. The doctors, his handlers, Rumlow's Strike team. Men, women, everyone. It was a bloodbath down there." Clint moves his scarred hand towards Bucky's knee but hesitates.

 _It's all right_ , he wants to say but what comes out is a croak. He's lost his fucking voice. Okay, not all right. _Steve_ , Bucky thinks, _where are you?_

Clint softly touches Bucky's knee, then withdraws his hand. "He was catatonic when we found him. Didn't resist arrest, let us escort him out of the building without as much as a scuffle. You wouldn't think it but Fury is very good at that kind of thing."

Bucky is listening for the wind. The sun is beating down on them, and it's not even seven in the morning. He moves back a bit, leans more heavily against the wall. "Pierce?" 

"Dead. The Winter Soldier shot him in the head. We never managed to fully reconstruct how things went down. But from the position of the bodies it looked as if Pierce was the last one the Winter Soldier killed."

"How many?" Bucky has the taste of milk in his mouth. 

Clint turns to him. "Come again?"

"How many shots? To kill Pierce?" Far below traffic is humming, someone's honking. 

"Eleven. He put eleven bullets into the bastard's head."

The disgust in Clint's voice is heartfelt, and right: if this world is like Bucky's, Clint has first-hand experience in being mind-controlled. He knows what it's like to hurt your friends, hurt them badly, against your will. He knows what a puppet feels when it's moved by someone else's strings. 

But does he know about deep water? What it's like to emerge from it, sparkling and translucent, waves lapping against the shore? Does he know about being able to breathe, for the first time, in fucking _years?_ James knows, Bucky thinks. James never knew Steve, but he comes from the same dark place as Bucky. It could have easily been Bucky down in the bank vault, taking out everyone until it was just him and Pierce. _Eleven bullets._ The Winter Soldier always used 12-round magazines. Bucky still does, whenever he takes the SIG-Sauer with him. There's just one good reason why James returned to the bank. And now Bucky realizes why he never went back. He didn't remember much in those first days. But the man on the bridge was alive, his _friend_. Steve. Bucky can see that, without this knowledge, he would have gone straight to the bank, to finally put an end to it.

He takes Clint's hand, and Clint flinches just a little when Bucky traces the scar with his metal fingers. "James did this," Bucky says. The depth of the wound, the way the knife cut straight through the median nerve – it's a skill the Red Room taught the Soldier, one that he perfected in the course of the years. It must have taken months and the best of Stark's excellent medical staff for Clint to be able to fully use the hand again.

"Yes." Clint's hand is warm and loose under Bucky's fingers. "Did you? To your Clint?"

He shakes his head, "No," he shakes his head again. "When did it happen? You said he didn't fight when you took him in."

"That happened last summer. Fury had intelligence about a planned attack on a Molecular Biology Lab in –"

"In Barcelona," Bucky says. "The fucking biological bomb exploding in our faces." He's still mad when he thinks about all what went wrong that day.

Clint nods. "We were on a rooftop together, providing cover for Tony and Tasha. I don't think I ever saw you..." He stops and rolls his eyes. "Sorry," he says, "I've never seen _James_ so pissed off before. I mean, sure, the bomb exploded before we had it contained. But the only damage was the Quinjet, and Tony can afford to lose one of those."

"It was a good plan, a perfect plan. I don't like it when those don't pan out," Bucky grumbles. It's been eight months, and he still can't believe he missed the fucking asshole who detonated the bomb. Had him right in the crosshairs and _still_ missed the guy. But the thing is: He was alone that day on the roof. Clint wasn't even with them in the Quinjet. And it was _Steve_ and Nat on ground level, trying to stop those idiots with their damned bomb. "What happened between the two of you?" 

Clint does a friendly little shake and withdraws his hand from Bucky's touch. "James wanted to go after the bomber. I tried to talk him out of it. The Quinjet was burning, we had no back-up. Next thing I know he takes me down and rams his knife into my hand. I was lucky Tony came to pick us up. He got James off me, not that it was easy or anything. James was in full Winter Soldier mode; he was set to kill. Tony tried to shut him down, or at least shut the arm down. But no luck. James got away from us over the roofs." Clint lets out an appreciative little laugh. "He runs parkour like a _Yamakasi_."

By now, the sun must light the entire roof. Bucky keeps staring down towards the streets. He doesn't remember much of his training in Novosibirsk, but sometimes he dreams of falling, from rooftops, from balconies high up, from a moving train. "How did... " He swallows.

"We found him a few hours later. Out cold, in a building that Fury identified as a deserted Hydra base."

"And he..." Bucky can only shrug. 

"He doesn't remember anything." Clint rubs with his right thumb across the scar, an unconscious gesture, Bucky thinks. "Locked himself away for days. When he came out, he gave me the knife, the one he cut me with." 

Clint moves away from the wall and reaches behind himself. For a moment, Bucky goes into high alert – _this is it, he's misjudged everyone in this dimension, they are out to get him after all_ – but Clint only slips out a knife from a hidden sheath on his back. The sunlight reflects from the open blade, a glint of light rushes across the roof. It's the second Tanto blade, the one missing from the side of the bed in James's room. Clint moves it in his hands, and the light jumps back and forth between them.

"It's become my favorite knife," Clint says.

"It's a good blade." Bucky cannot raise his voice to more than a whisper. "Light," he says. "Easy to control." And, "I'm sorry."

"Not for you to feel sorry about." With a smoothly practiced movement, Clint returns the knife to its sheath. "I just want to understand what's different, you know," he settles back against the wall, "in your dimension and ours."

 _What's the same_ , he clearly means. "Do you have any explanation for why he did it?" Bucky asks.

"PTSD," Clint says in a tone that says he knows such explanations don't do shit to help. "Resurfacing memories when he's under stress. Flashbacks to the Winter Soldier's missions." He shrugs. "It's what the therapists say."

Sessions with a counselor twice a week. It makes much more sense now. "Does he still go out on missions with the Avengers?" 

Clint nods. "It was a one-time incident." The corners of his eyes crinkle again in that familiar way, and he puts his scarred hand on Bucky's shoulder. "We decided to take our chances."

The feeling of Clint's hand steadies Bucky like it always does. The Avengers have James' back in this dimension, just like they have his back at home – with Steve or without him. Bucky blinks into the morning light. 

"Bucky, who's Steven Grant Proctor?" 

Clint takes his hand away. There's no hesitation in his voice now when he says Bucky's name; he's done making jokes. JARVIS must have informed Clint of what Bucky has been up to during the night. And Bucky gets it, he really does. They have good reason to mistrust James, and the first thing James' doppelganger does is talk to a janitor none of them know. A janitor, Bucky suddenly remembers, who knows the access code to Stark's lab. 

"He's Steve," he says, "my Steve," and just saying the name makes him smile.

Clint sits up and stares at Bucky. It's clearly not the answer he expected. "Your Captain America? That's him? But..." 

"Yeah, he's a little guy." Bucky can feel his smile grow wider, which is likely not what Clint's expecting, either. Oh well. "And nope, not Captain America." 

Clint's concerned for Steven, concerned for a civilian who is, as far as the Avengers know, only a casual acquaintance to James. That's why Clint was waiting up here on the roof for Bucky. JARVIS must have classified Bucky's behavior as suspicious, recalculated his threat-level to higher than thirty-five percent – his threat level to Steven, mind you – and alerted, as by standard Tower security protocol, the Avengers aka – Clint. Bucky would laugh out loud because, seriously, it's fucking funny, if not for the dumbfounded expression on Clint's face.

"He's not Captain America, but he's Steve," Bucky explains, which, okay, cannot make much sense to Clint.

"Come again," Clint says, leaning a bit closer. 

It's a beautiful morning. From up here it looks as if all of New York is flowing towards the ocean, out to a point far beyond Queens, beyond the whole length of Long Island, even. Bucky stretches out his legs, he turns his face into the sun. And for the second time in this world, he's telling the story of how Steve Rogers became Captain America.

★


	4. Chapter 4

★

Steven's studio is a few blocks over from Carroll Street Station. Bucky can see why he loves the neighborhood. This part of Gowanus is industrial, working-class, and yep, there's the hipsters and the coffee shops. But when Bucky squints down the streets, he can see the old South Brooklyn everywhere.

The address is an industrial complex from the early 20th century. A banner hangs from the facade, advertising "Co-Working Spaces For Rent". The narrow entrance leads into a courtyard paved with cobblestones. At least two dozen vehicles are parked here; a hand-written sign warns to drive slowly. The brick building at the rear has four stoops, and Bucky walks across to the one with the red B painted on top. He finds Steven's name in a colorful list of the building's inhabitants, some clearly made-up _(Amadeus Cho, Squirrel Girl)_ others crossed-out ages ago. There's a bell but the door is open. Bucky enters and walks up the stairs until he's reached the fourth floor. 

_Studio 5-17_ , Steven told him. _Can't miss it. It's right beside the stairs._

Bucky is standing on the landing and normally he would just continue up. But loud voices are floating down to him, and one of them belongs to Steven. It's uncanny how much he sounds like Steve, same baritone, same soft Brooklyn vowels. Nobody would expect this deep voice to belong to a guy who's barely 5 feet 4. 

"My contract clearly states that I only clean the communal spaces. Bathrooms, kitchen, hallways. That's it. And I've already done all of that yesterday." Steven's voice fills the stairwell, and it's sharp and aggressive in a way Bucky remembers from a long time ago.

"Don't get all huffy, Proctor. _Our_ little deal has nothing to do with whatever you arranged with those idiots here." 

The other guy talks more quietly but with his enhanced hearing Bucky understands every word. He does not like this guy. He certainly does not like how he calls Steven _Proctor_. 

"We don't have a deal," Steven says.

"Oh, but we do."

Okay, Bucky _really_ does not like this guy. It sounds as if he's threatening Steven, and Bucky can feel old instincts kicking in. He wants to race up there, take three stairs at once and grab the asshole by the throat. It's the Winter Soldier who makes him set one foot carefully after the other and sneak up the stairs.

"We don't," Steven says again, voice firm and deep. "I won't finish the Madonna for you, no matter what you think you have on me. It's stupid. Griswold will see right away it's not your work. You need to do the assignment yourself."

"You can copy anyone's style, Proctor, you're good at it. I've seen you do it for Hannah. And you will do it for me." The guy talks even quieter. "You're _living_ here," he says. "Using the showers, cooking your food. This is a work-only space and management has asked us to come forward with the names of anyone abusing their privileges."

The rotten little snitch. Bucky crouches on the flight of stairs, close to the wall so he can see the two men but they can't see him. Steven's face is red; he's still wearing the bright green tee. 

"I live with my dad. Over on Wyckoff Street." He blinks and looks more shaken than he sounds. Steven, just like Steve, can't lie worth shit.

"You're a lousy liar, Proctor. Everybody knows you have a futon hidden up in the stowage space." 

Right. The other guy is tall, dark hair, knitted cap, he wears an expensive charcoal coat. He's good-looking, or what passes for good-looking these days. He hasn't got an inch on Steven in the looks department, as far as Bucky is concerned. But something's unusual about the guy's solid stance. The Winter Soldier provides an astoundingly high threat level of twenty-five percent. Guy practices martial arts, Bucky thinks, and it's the last straw.

He stomps up the remaining stairs, and they both whip around. Many people have remarked on how intimidating Bucky looks when he's walking with the Winter Soldier's murder strut. It's not something he learned or trained for; it's the movements of a machine. Tall Guy takes a cautious step back. Steven just stares at Bucky. 

"Who are you?" Tall Guy demands. 

"None of your business," Bucky barks back.

He stops directly in front of Steven who hasn't moved an inch. A slow smile appears on his face. God, Bucky loves him. 

"Hi, sweetheart," he says and belatedly comes to his senses when Steven rolls his eyes. Right, right, not _his_ Steve. Bucky waves the brown bag in his hand. "Bagels and whitefish spread?"

Steven takes Bucky by the arm, the left one, metal hand safely hidden in one of James' gloves. He doesn't glance back when he steers Bucky towards a door that looks as if it's been added into the wall as an afterthought. The door's ajar, and Steven pushes it open, steps inside and pulls Bucky with him into the room. The walls are so thin that Tall Guy's "You'll hear from management, Proctor," floats right through, no need for super soldier ears. What a douche. 

Bucky finds himself in a cramped, box-shaped space; the opposite wall is right there, not three yards away. A foot above him, a low-hanging platform has been built into the room. To the left the box opens into a narrow studio with high ceilings. What the space lacks in width, it makes up for in length. It feels like they're standing in another hallway. When Bucky checks for another exit (no luck), he realizes that's exactly it: this space was once part of the entrance area. Someone added cheap plaster walls to create another studio. Workspace is expensive in New York. Management is obviously trying to make as much money as they can of artists in need of studios.

"Trouble with the neighbor?" Bucky nods towards the door.

"Nothing I can't handle." Steven lets go of Bucky's hand and raises his chin. He's wearing a pair of khaki pants smeared with paint. The red blush has vanished; he is pale, paler than last night.

There's paint everywhere, and the air is full of its chemical smell. Sawdust hangs in the air, so thick Bucky can see tiny particles floating in the neon light. From another studio further inside, the buzzing of an electric saw starts up. And hell, he cannot let this one go. "Look, I wasn't going to say any–"

"So don't say it." Steven walks away, towards the window where natural light streams inside. 

When Bucky follows him – along shelves filled with reams of paper, paint buckets, fat artsy books, and at least a dozen metal cups with brushes in all sizes – he mutters, "You're just like James."

"Has he been here?" 

Steven nods. "He's come by a couple of times. But James is a quiet guy. I _like_ that he's a quiet guy. Dark, broody, keeps to himself, you know? My type." 

Bucky watches Steven's bony shoulders and the way the pants hug his narrow hips. There's a lightness to his steps that was missing in the Tower. He clearly feels at home in his odd studio. Steve, his Steve, would love this place.

"But he can't stop nagging about the fumes and the dust. And the cold."

"You don't have heating here?" Bucky checked for points of egress but clearly he should have checked for radiators first. There are none, not underneath the window, not hidden behind the shelves. 

Steven sighs. "There's heating in the hallway. It's never cold here."

Liar. It's April, and they're having a warm spring. But Bucky can just imagine how cold the studio will be in winter, what with the cement flooring and the plaster wall facing the open stairwell. Still, he's letting it slide. He has bigger fish to fry.

They've reached the far end of the studio. Bright daylight pours from the window onto an easel. There's a few black strokes on the canvas, a woman, a Madonna, Bucky thinks, because of the mantel and the hints of a halo above the featureless face. The floor underneath the easel is a paint-smeared mess. Maybe it's the sunlight but Steven has more color over here.

There's a makeshift kitchen, nothing fancy, just a hotplate and a sink. A table beside it is covered with a kitchen oilcloth looking like something from Sarah Rogers' home: turquoise with cherry print and a red gingham trim. Porcelain cups and plates for two people are set on the table. In the middle lies a Starbuck's bag. It's crinkled and a bit greasy, just like it has to be. Bucky smells cheddar, sweet butter, a note of pepper, a touch of chives. Saliva gathers in his mouth. It's been... well, it's been a long two days since he had his last grilled cheese sandwich. 

"I didn't know if you had breakfast." Steven offers Bucky a chair. 

"I hadn't. And I got us bagels." He puts the brown bag on the table. "Was hoping for a cup of Joe." He pats the Starbucks bag. "I didn't expect to be treated to my favorite food." 

He's got loads to say, but it can wait. Bucky reminds himself that to Steven, he is a stranger. And yes, Steven Grant Proctor, no matter how much he looks like the Steve Bucky remembers from his youth, is a stranger to him.

"Coffee." Steven is already at the hotplate. "Of course. Thanks for bringing bagels." He fills water into an old-fashioned percolator and takes a coffee can from the shelf. "I really like whitefish spread."

 _No surprises here_ , Bucky wants to say because Steve at home _loves_ the stuff. But he keeps it to himself. No need to remind Steven at every turn of a guy he will never meet. 

He takes the sandwich out of the bag. It's perfectly toasted, the cheese soft and chewy with a light brown crust. There's hope for James yet if he's gone beyond pelmeni and borscht and discovered the delicacies Starbucks has to offer. Bucky takes a bite, and oh, it's the best.

Steven watches him with a wicked grin, and no, Bucky was wrong: he's no stranger. Bucky tries to be sensible about this but he can't. The drip of the percolator (who still uses a percolator?), the dusty window, even the way the cups and plates are set – he remembers all of this, from before the war. And it feels right, like only Steve feels right these days. It feels like he is where he should be. Where _they_ should have been. He and Steve.

Steven takes a seat and pours coffee in both cups. The dark smell fills the studio. Bucky puts the sandwich down; the electric buzzing of the saw comes to a halt. In the abrupt silence the mini-fridge sounds overly loud. Dust motes glitter in the sunlight. A single shelf runs along the opposite wall; there's a monitor and laptop on it. This wall above is solid brick, painted white. A large painting fills the space. It's dark and blue, unmoving. Ice, Bucky thinks and has to look away, towards the window and the easel, to the rainbow of colors on the floor.

"Is everything all right?" 

He turns back to Steven who's pouring milk into his cup. At home, Steve takes his coffee stark black, no sugar. 

"Yes." Bucky nods. "The grilled cheese sandwich is perfect."

Steve watches him from baby-blue eyes. "You're not quite like James, after all." 

"How's that?" 

"He'd never let his attention slide like you just did." He takes a bagel out of the bag. 

Bucky takes his time adding milk to his coffee.

"I don't think James noticed the painting," Steven adds.

"When he was here?" James definitely noticed the painting. No incarnation of him could miss it. 

Steven nods with a mouth full of whitefish spread. "It's new, the art. And he came by a few days ago." 

"You've been sick?" 

For an answer, Steven only shrugs, and Bucky wants to roll his eyes. Steve and his fucking, stubborn pride. And okay, Bucky's eaten his sandwich, and he's gotten his cup of morning Joe. Time to address the elephant in the room.

"I did hear this right?" he says, perhaps a bit more sharply than intended. "You have a cleaning job here _and_ the job at the Tower?"

It's absolutely the wrong thing to say. Steven is half out of the chair; he throws his bagel on the plate. 

"What the fuck is it with you guys?" He takes the milk carton, stomps over to the fridge and puts it away. "I'm not some sickly invalid. I can hold down two jobs. It's not a fucking problem." He slams the fridge door close and turns to face Bucky. "Has the AI set you up to come here and snoop around?"

What? "Hell, no!" 

Steven is back at the table, so close Bucky feels the need to lean back against the wall. 

"I don't want the AI to know I work here," Steven says, more quietly now. "It's not illegal. I just..." He raises his chin in that painfully familiar way. "I don't like it knowing things about me. And..." He shoves Bucky, lightly but it's a warning. "I do my job well. I've helped my mom clean when she was…" He steps away. "I'm dependable. I'm meticulous. I love having things well-kept. Just because I've got asthma doesn't mean I cannot take care of myself." He sits back on the chair. His breathing is ragged.

Bucky puts both of his hands on the table. "I am not spying for anyone. And I get that JARVIS here is a bit of a prick, but he can't make me do shit." He tries for a smile.

Steven stares at his gloved hand. Bucky wants to pull it back into his lap but he doesn't. "Also… um," he says. "Where I come from, I'm Head of Tower Security."

Steven looks up.

"Stark knows everything about you. You signed the waiver, right?"

Steven nods.

"Then JARVIS did a class A security check on you. And you passed." Bucky leans back. It all looks right and yet, something doesn't add up. An artist from Brooklyn, dirt-poor, an asthmatic – Stark has strict non-discrimination hiring guidelines, stricter than the government, for sure. Chronic illness is not an issue if HR sees potential in an applicant. And Maria makes sure that everyone working at HR knows how to look for potential in applicants. Yes, even in cleaning personnel. It's Stark's philosophy. Or rather, Bucky suspects, it's Pepper's. Steven's advanced hearing aid, even James paying for his asthma treatment, all of it fits right in with how employees are treated at the Tower. 

But Steven knows the access code to Stark's lab. That information comes with an absurdly high security clearance. Pepper knows the code, Bucky knows it, probably Bruce. Security, perhaps. Building Management, doubtful. But why would anyone from the cleaning crews have it? 

"So," Steven starts, "what you're saying is the AI knows everything about me?"

Bucky sighs. "Anything JARVIS deems relevant to Tower security. Which is probably much more than you think."

Steven sighs. He fiddles around with his cup, then looks up. "Do you think the AI has my studio bugged?"

"Well..." Bucky turns around to look down the tube-like room. There's a rolled-up futon on the storage platform, badly hidden behind a large can of paint. There are two suitcases up there. A red alarm-clock is standing on one of them. Tall Guy's got it right: Steven is living here. 

"I mean, hell yes, JARVIS could have your place bugged," Bucky says. 

Stark has no respect for privacy, the waiver is little more than a formality. But Stark doesn't even know Steven. Likely he's heard his name for the first time last night, when JARVIS alerted the Avengers to the strange interest the other-dimension Sergeant Barnes was taking in a little guy from maintenance. No, if Steven's studio is bugged, then it was _James_ who planted the bugs. Bucky would have done it. An asthmatic sleeping in paint fumes and sawdust? Steven could suffer an attack at night, up there on his futon – and with a severe asthma attack, every minute counts. "But, um..." Bucky is an excellent liar. "I don't think so. JARVIS already knows everything about you he needs to know."

"I am not worried because of me." Steven moves his half-eaten bagel around on the plate. "But when James was here we talked. I was sick, and... well, he stayed the night." 

A blush rises to his face and Bucky grins, even though he's certain nothing untoward happened. Steven throws a piece of bagel at him that Bucky catches with the metal hand. For a moment, they smile at each other.

"He told me about his life before the Tower. Bits and pieces. About being a prisoner of war." Steven lowers his voice. "I don't want the AI to know about James' past. The AI hates James."

"It's just an intelligent computer system," Bucky says. Okay, [just a rather _very_ intelligent computer system](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J.A.R.V.I.S.). But JARVIS hates no one; it's technologically impossible. "But Stark–" And shit, yes, Stark was nice enough to him, and he and James are on a first-name basis. But Bucky has not yet found out whether the Winter Soldier killed Stark's parents in this dimension. "If JARVIS hates James, then it means Stark hates James."

Steven looks up, his blue eyes keen and alive. "Mr. Stark? You mean Iron Man? No." He shakes his head, emphatically. "They are friends. And I think I would know if Mr. Stark was lying to James."

Bucky believes it. "In my world," he says slowly, "JARVIS knows everything about me. And I am pretty sure, your JARVIS knows everything about James." It's not entirely true because they never got access to all of the Red Room files on Case No. 19. But for all practical purposes, Bucky is an open book to JARVIS, and what JARVIS doesn't know is nobody's business but his and Steve's.

"Shit." Steven stares at his bagel when the electric saw is starting up again. "Okay," he says, and smart, Bucky thinks, real smart, using the noise of the saw as cover for whatever secret Steven's about to tell him now.

"Okay," Steven says again. He's leaning closer to Bucky, but he does not raise his voice over the buzzing of the saw. "No idea how it is in your dimension, but here, the AI is a total Nazi. It watches us constantly. Like, obviously it monitors our work hours. That's its job. But it times our breaks, down to the second. It fucking controls how much cleaner we use. We used to be allowed to switch shifts but not anymore." He lowers his voice. "Some people tried talking to Human Resources about it. A couple of months later they were fired. The AI made it look like it had nothing to do with their complaints. But everybody knows. And then the AI ordered Josip to clean the stairs." He looks up, a question in his eyes, and of course Bucky knows Josip. 

But Josip works in building management; he's not in cleaning. "Josip Katic?"

Steven nods, and hell, Josip is a legend in the Tower: He's been there from the very beginning. The way some people tell it, he was already a member of the construction crews. Half Tower ghost, half ageless factotum, you can meet him anywhere in the building, no matter what time or what day of the week, hobbling along on his stiff leg. He knows every tenant, all the employees, and the face of everyone who's visited the Tower more than once. Josip is best friends with Natasha, which is both scary and reassuring. Stark and Josip go way back; they're drinking buddies. Stark would never allow Josip to clean the stairs.

"You said," Bucky says, "you used be able to trade shifts. When exactly did this change?"

"Um," Steven puts a finger to his lips. "Last summer. I had just started working at the Tower, and I traded shifts with Hannah a couple of times. Then we were told we couldn't switch anymore. That was in June, maybe. I've only been working there for a few months."

"Hannah?"

Steven smiles and picks up his bagel. "A friend from art school. She got me the job. I would have never applied at Stark Industries if she hadn't said I had a chance." He takes a bite and licks whitefish spread from his lips.

A memory flashes through Bucky's mind: cream cheese on dark rye bread, a delicacy back then, expensive, and Steve had sold a drawing or Bucky had gotten a bonus from the store, he doesn't remember. But there was extra money, and they spent it on cream cheese, and in his memory it's been the most delicious food in the world. Bucky's hiding a smile, he's shifting on the chair. But he has a question he needs to ask. No more getting lost in memories from before the war, no more beating around the bush.

"Why do you have security clearance for Stark's lab?" 

Steven freezes, bagel in both hands.

"Even if you're cleaning the labs, you should not have the access code to Stark's door," Bucky explains.

"How do you know that?" Steven's voice is very quiet. 

_Shit._ When Bucky told Steven that he'd come from another dimension, he hadn't been very specific about where exactly he landed himself. Hell, does everyone in this dimension need to know the Winter Soldier knocked himself out, with a fucking desk, too? Apparently so. "Um. I saw you. When you came into Stark's lab."

"You... saw me?"

Story time. While the electric saw keeps on buzzing Bucky tells Steven all of what happened in Stark's lab. Steven has a laughing fit. It takes a predictable 1.6 minutes until he gets himself under control again. He is no better than Sam, not one fucking bit. But Bucky is mollified by Steven's concerned look to his head, and he shows him the bruise and explains about the rapid healing factor that comes even with the shitty Zola-brewed serum. 

Which inadvertently leads to Bucky having to tell Steven that, yes, he is a super soldier, too. Which leads to Steven concluding that _James_ also is a super soldier. Because Steven is smart and he wants to know all about James. It's the reason he invited Bucky to his studio. And Bucky is just not used to keeping secrets from Steve.

"So James signed up for a military science experiment? Like your Steve?" Steven is sitting upright. His tone of voice is close to inquisitorial. Sharp. If Bucky didn't know Steve he'd flip him off. But Steve, his Steve, only gets like this when he cares too deeply to be nice.

"Like hell! I never signed up for this shit. I never wanted to be a soldier," he says. Which is the truth. Bucky got drafted into World War Two. Back in the day, he wanted to be a mechanic, over at Hoberman’s at East New York Avenue. 

"Your arm," Steven says, and there it is, his fucking metal arm, "it's not something Stark made, is it?

Bucky raises his left hand and flexes the metal fingers. "No."

"Was James working for the Soviets in Afghanistan?"

"No."

"Then why the red star?"

"James was working for the Soviets. I was." Bucky wants to add _not voluntarily_ , but it would mean giving away the Winter Soldier's tale. "Steven..." he starts.

"Afghanistan doesn't make sense at all," Steven says. "The Soviet invasion was in 1979. James could never have been part of it." He looks up. The crumbled Starbucks bag and the plastic container with the rest of the whitefish spread sit between them on the table. The red cherries of the tablecloth have a solid plastic glow. 

"Steven..." Bucky says again.

"You couldn't have been there. James keeps lying to me about it. You're lying, too. But we were children when the Soviets invaded Afghanistan."

"Steven, stop it," Bucky says. "I can't tell you, okay. Don't you understand? It's his story to tell."

"But..." Steven puts his hands on the table, strong slender fingers with the cherries peeking through. "But you are him. Aren't you?"

Tall Guy takes this fucking moment to kill the electric saw. Bucky wants to roll his eyes, but what he does is shake his head. "No, I'm not." 

He doesn't want to say: Your James is me, without Steve. He doesn't want to say: I am someone else, because of Steve. He does not want to say it, and he doesn't have to: Steven takes his hands from the table and leans back, a strangely relaxed gesture. He keeps searching Bucky's face and a wry smile appears on his lips. 

"I just wish he would tell me." 

He sounds young and a bit in love, and it's not that Bucky can't sympathize. He wishes he could assure Steven that, in time, James will tell him about his Winter Soldier years. But knowing himself, there is a good chance James never will. 

"He must have told you something." Bucky gestures towards the painting on the wall. 

Steven follows his gaze, and it's a very still moment, sunlight streaming in and this blue window into another world where it's freezing. Bucky forces himself to look at the painting, really look at it. It's shades and shades of blue, one after the other. Beautiful, if not for the shadows encroaching from the sides. 

"He told me about a cold place where he had to sleep. That he would never get warm." 

But it was green, Bucky thinks, camouflage, army green. He tried to write down the word the Russians used. He can imagine the letters, he can imagine hearing the sound of it. Бак. Bak. He broke the pen, writing it out in therapy, a plastic ball-pen. He has not yet been able to say the word aloud. The shades of blue up there hold an echo of it, but they are nothing like the real thing.

Steven gets up and looks at the painting, standing with his head slightly tipped to the side. "It's no good, is it? I should probably take it down."

"No, don't," Bucky says. "But give it another try."

Steven turns to him, squinting a little. In this moment he looks nothing like Steve. "You're– " The saw starts buzzing again; it sounds muffled as if someone closed a door. "You're a little shit," Steven says. "But I will. I'll give it another try." 

The saw cuts off, starts up again, and stops a few seconds later. Again and again. Tall Guy must be sawing pieces of wood, really tiny pieces of wood.

"How can you stand this fucking noise?" Bucky asks. Inwardly he curses his super soldier hearing.

Steven swipes breadcrumbs off the table with one hand. "If I was here alone, I'd turn off my hearing aid." He gestures towards his ears. "I had it turned off, too, when I went up to Mr. Stark's lab yesterday. I always do when I'm vacuuming. One of the perks of being hard of hearing: you can opt for silence." He grins. "It must be why I didn't hear you knocking yourself out." He's licking the breadcrumbs from the inside of his palm, slow and meticulously, as if he doesn't want to miss a single crumb.

And Bucky remembers their old kitchen in Brooklyn Heights, early morning, and he half out the door, taking a quick bite of Stevie's jam and no peanut butter sandwich. They had to make do with so little, and shared everything – bathwater, shaving cream, books, their bed. He never had sex with Steve before the war but he knew his body intimately, its light weight on the mattress, its sleep-smell at night. _Steve_ , he thinks, and he misses Steve so much it's an ache in his gut. 

Steven lowers his hand and gives him a questioning look. The saw screeches and howls and then abruptly shuts the fuck up. Well, Bucky thinks, he did knock himself out in Stark's lab. And, "About that, here's a question for you. Why didn't you stumble over me when you vacuumed the lab?"

Steven stares at him. "I never vacuumed the lab. Shit."

"What?"

"The AI called me away. Some early bird had made a mess at the coffee bar." He takes his empty cup and the plates and carries them over to the sink.

Bucky thinks it over, and yes, it makes sense, from a security point of view: intruder in the lab, get the civilian out of there as fast as you can. Steven is running hot water and adds dish soap to it. And Bucky realizes how expertly he shifted the conversation away from the first, the important question Bucky asked. 

"Why _do_ you have security clearance for Stark's lab?" he asks again. As if on cue, the buzzing saw falls silent.

Steven takes his time putting the dishes into the water. Finally he sighs. "James gave it to me." 

"When?" 

Steven looks into Bucky's face unblinking, but his hands are twitching. He turns back to the sink and grabs a sponge. He cannot lie, even though he'd do anything to protect James. Bucky wants to hug him badly, neon green shirt and all.

"Two months ago," Steven mutters. He keeps rubbing over the rim of a cup. "I didn't want it. I never cleaned up there before. But James said he needs someone he trusts in charge of Mr. Stark's lab."

"Did he say why?" Something must have happened. The attack on Clint was last summer, but something must have happened recently. Perhaps it's why Natasha had to use the shut-down code on James. But no, it doesn't make sense. Stark's lab, so this must be about Stark.

Steven shakes his head. "He won't tell me."

"Any ideas?"

Steven shakes his head again but wisely keeps his mouth shut. Those plates will be sparkling clean once he's done with them. 

"Nothing?" Bucky drinks the last cold sip of coffee. He knows he's pushing, but Steven said, _The AI hates James_. And Steven doesn't know James' history, but he _knows_ James. Also, smart. If Steven's anything like Steve (and he is), his instincts are honed to perfection. If you're a little guy in the habit of picking fights you better have good instincts. Steve can smell danger from miles away, and Bucky'd bet Steven is just the same.

The saw is back to its electric buzzing. It's just a background noise and yet, Steven flinches. "There is something," he says.

Bucky takes his empty cup and brings it to the sink. When he drops it into the soapy water Steven nods a thank you. "You don't have to help me do the dishes."

"What did you notice?" Bucky snatches the dishcloth from its hook and starts drying the plates.

"It happened a few times now." Steven sighs. "One time, James was in the cafeteria. A couple of times we ran into each other in a corridor. He walked straight past me. No word, no sign of recognition. When I asked him later he didn't remember – not even that he'd been to the cafeteria. The first time I just thought he was, you know, preoccupied, thinking. Or sleep-walking. I always work the night shifts. But you know..." He glances towards the painting on the wall. "It's not like him."

"Not a sleep-walker, no," Bucky says. PTSD episodes, more likely. He remembers waking up on the dirty floor of a subway station once, with no idea of how he got there. 

But there's more. Steven keeps looking at Bucky, clearly checking whether what he's telling him sounds familiar. Bucky slightly shakes his head because it doesn't. Not anymore, not since those first days in Washington DC. They are standing so close that Bucky can feel the tension in Steven's body. He reaches for a cup, and for a moment he drops his hand on Steven's shoulder. It gets him one of those wry smiles. 

"One time he was in the staff room when I came to work." Steven rinses each piece of cutlery under clear water and hands it to Bucky. "He was talking to the AI. I only caught the end of the conversation before the AI cut him off. But it sounded as if he was reporting to it."

"Did you hear anything specific?"

"James was recounting numbers. It sounded like a telephone number. I only got the last digits – one, seven, three. Sorry..." Steven winces, shrugs. "I didn't catch more. When I was at the door, the AI said _Very good, Sergeant Barnes_. Nothing more. A couple of hours later it was back to normal, telling me I was using too much scrubbing milk in the bathrooms." He rolls his eyes. 

_One, seven, three._ Cartridge specs, 30x173mm, the Winter Soldier provides. Stark Industries used to build such powerful weapon systems. But it's been years since Stark worked for the Air Force. "Anything from James?"

"Nothing. He walked past me and left. Never said a word." Steven stares at the saucer he's holding in the water. It's gold-rimmed porcelain, painted with feather-fine flowers. "But you know how the AI almost has a personality? Very polite, British?"

"Yeah, that's JARVIS." 

"When the AI talked to James that night, it sounded differently. Not... " Steven squeezes the sponge dry, "not like a robot, that's not what I mean. But blander, like it lost its personality. And, I don't know... slower?"

"Less forthcoming?" Bucky asks and thinks of JARVIS' prolonged silences when he quizzed him about the Steve Rogers in this dimension.

Steven nods and hands the last saucer to Bucky who dries it off. Steven drains the dish-water and puts everything away. The saw's still buzzing intermittently in the distance.

"I thought it was a difference in JARVIS' programing," Bucky says. "Like, Stark's personality is a bit different here than at home, and it shows in the way he designed JARVIS. A bit more suspicious. Definitely sneakier." 

Steven steps to the window and looks down into the courtyard. "Do you think I need to tell someone about James spacing out like this?" He turns back towards Bucky. His face is shadowed with the sunlight behind him. 

"I think the Avengers already know. I mean..." Bucky joins Steven at the window. An oversized white panel van is inching its way through the entrance into the yard. And fuck – 

"Will they throw him out? Because they think he's unfit for the job?" Bucky cannot see Steven's face but the concern lacing his voice is obvious. "It will kill him. James needs the Avengers. They are his family. He... you know, I said, he hates the military. And he does. But working with the Avengers is the most important thing in the world for him."

"The Avengers won't throw him out." At least Bucky thinks they won't. Tasha won't, and neither will Clint. He has no idea where Stark and Bruce stand on this. "But shouldn't you be more concerned about management right now?" He points towards the black lettering on the side of the van: _Gowanus Art Space_.

Steven shrugs. "Whatever Robert thinks he has on me, it won't fly with management."

Down in the courtyard the van is awkwardly maneuvered into a narrow parking space. A small, wiry guy with a scruffy beard gets out on the driver's side. In a studio nearby a door opens, something Bucky is certain Steven cannot hear. The saw screeches twice as loud as before. Steven gives a start, and hell, Bucky has no idea what Tall Guy is up to, but he's had enough.

"I'm going to pay this Robert character and his saw a visit." He's striding down the length of Steven's studio.

"Bucky, wait!" Steven calls behind him but Bucky is already out the door.

The hallway leads along a row of studios, 5-16, 5-14, 5-12, Bucky reads. Neon light illuminates the hallway all the way to the other end of the building. There's so much stuff stored here – boxes, rolls of canvas, a huge metal shelf – that he has a hard time summoning the murder strut. It takes him long seconds until he notices the noise is not coming from one of the studios. To his right is a large metal door. _Wood Shop_ a sign on it says. The door is slightly ajar, which explains why the fucking noise is now grating on Bucky’s nerves twice as loud. Tall Guy must have opened the door when he realized Management was coming. He’s really going for it now, having the saw bite into some kind of hard wood that makes it screech like a tortured robot.

Bucky pushes the door open with his metal hand, gently, because he doesn't want rip it from its hinges. Immediately, the noise of the saw is all around him, blanking out all other sounds. The Wood Shop is a large, windowless room. Neon lights, workbenches, heavy machinery. There are panels and boards stored on one side, shelves filled with sculptures stand on the other. How the fuck did Tall Guy even know Management was coming? And, well, the guy at the saw definitely is not Tall Robert Guy. He’s slim, wiry and even shorter than Steven; he’s wearing safety goggles. Right now he's turning a thick splintery board into tiny pieces. The floor is covered with dozens, hundreds, of them. The guy operates the saw expertly, like he works with it for a living, and Bucky swears, he’s grinning at him from below the goggles.

Then Bucky remembers to be less old-fashioned and recognizes the boy for what she is: a girl, a young woman, pretty much the same age as Steven. 

“Where’s Robert's studio?” he calls over the screeching of the saw.

The girl lifts the saw off the board but leaves it running idle in the air. She shoves the goggles into her dusted hair and winks at him. Her eyes are brown, Asian and owlish with pale, dust-free circles surrounding them.

Bucky walks towards her through the layer of sawdust covering the floor. His boots are a mess, but he has an inkling the girl is not making such a racket only for the sake of art.

“Hannah?” he says when he’s close enough she can hear him over the buzzing of the saw.

She nods. “Robert’s at 5-18. I am running cover.” The saw is revving up for a moment. “The walls are very thin. And Robert called Malik.” She sighs. “The idiot.”

“5-18. Got it.” Bucky turns, says, “thanks.” He takes a step back towards the door but the Winter Soldier makes him hesitate. “How do you know management’s coming?”

Hannah holds the running saw high up while she adjusts the board on the sawhorse. She nods towards the nearest shelf. And there, nestled between a noseless bust of Trump and a wooden ball, sits a tablet. It’s covered in sawdust like everything else in the room, but Bucky recognizes the entrance to the courtyard and the front part of the parking lot. The image is in black and white and changing every three seconds. CCTV footage. Steven and Hannah must have rigged up their own surveillance feed. Clever. Bucky turns to Hannah, but she’s already back at working the saw.

Bucky leaves the Wood Shop to its infernal screeching; he struts back down the hallway. Steven is leaning against the wall, looking smug and cool and beautiful. The neon light makes his hair shimmer white.

He starts, “You don’t have to –“

“I do. James would.”

For a moment Steven freezes, but then he says, “You're right. He actually would." 

His smile is all the permission Bucky needs to walk into studio 5-18 without bothering to knock. 

Tall Guy is standing at the window, a phone at his ear. He does a little jump when Bucky stomps into the room. His studio is large, flooded with light, and spotlessly clean. There are several monitors and computers; Bucky can make out a large printer. One wall is covered from ceiling to floor with a black-and-white print of the Flatiron Building in Manhattan. 

Tall Guy, okay, _Robert_ has taken off his coat and hat. A black turtleneck sits tight on his chest, showing off how fit he is. The Winter Soldier raises his threat estimate to thirty percent, which does nothing to make Bucky feel more charitable towards Robert Guy. 

“Hang up now,” he says, very quietly.

The electric saw has fallen silent; he can hear Steven and Hannah moving in the hallway. The sound of stomping boots are coming up the stairs, still too far away for normal human ears to hear but getting closer.

Robert Guy just stares at Bucky; his mouth literally hangs open. He slowly lowers the phone but doesn't disconnect the call. A voice says, "... very curious to see this evidence of Mr. Proctor living in his studio."

Bucky's not sure whether Robert realizes he can hear every word of what's said on the other end of the line. But he doesn't care. He walks up towards Robert who is tall but not quite as tall as Bucky. While he plucks the phone from his hand – to a startled, disbelieving "What?" – he wonders what kind of evidence Robert means to hand over to management. Pictures, video, a paper trail, the Winter Soldier provides, but no. Robert may know martial arts but he is not smart enough to look for a paper trail.

The sleek black thing in Bucky's hand is the latest model iPhone, not nearly as powerful as the Stark phone, but twice as costly. The window behind Robert is broader, the view into the yard wider than the one from Steven's studio. From here, one can see the building on the left, an old brownstone with a penthouse added onto the roof and an outdoor elevator made of glass and steel. 

Robert says, "Can I have my fucking phone back?"

Bucky turns to him. He smells clean, citrusy. One of the monitors comes to life and an image appears that fills the whole screen. Bucky is vividly reminded of the Russian Madonna, a statue overseeing the space where the Black Widows trained. It's been years since he last thought about the statue, the muted gold accents on the dark wood, the way its eyes seemed to see something at the ceiling nobody else could see. Natasha hated it. 

"No," Bucky says. The Madonna on the monitor is a digital painting. Or rather, it's a digital copy of the head of a Madonna in oil. _Someone_ added a body, mantel, background. It's shoddy work, amateurish; even Bucky can see it. This must be the uni assignment Steven and Robert argued about. The guy definitely needs Steven's help. 

Robert steps in front of the monitor, effectively blocking Bucky's line of sight. Bucky rubs a wool-clad thumb over the phone in his left hand. _Pictures, videos..._

"I have another phone here on my desk, and I will call the police if you don't give me back my phone." Robert rummages around in a stack of papers but no second phone appears.

"Is that so?" Bucky puts the phone in his pocket and slowly removes the glove. 

The metal hand never fails to draw a reaction. Robert moves backward, into the desk, fast. A pair of scissors slides towards the edge, and with enviable presence of mind, Robert catches it mid-fall. In his hand, the scissors become a weapon. The Winter Soldier raises the threat level by another five percent.

Bucky shoves the glove into his pocket; he takes the phone out again. Not many people understand how dexterous his metal fingers are, and only Stark, possibly Steve, understands that it's a tool as much as, well, a hand. With a _thought_ Bucky extends a needle from the underside of his middle finger and uses it to eject the SIM tray of the phone.

Robert gasps. Bucky looks at him blandly, a pale imitation of the Winter Soldier's murder face. Now he's absolutely certain that Robert's _evidence_ against Steven is pictures taken with the phone.

The Winter Soldier would have simply destroyed the thing but Bucky doesn't want to create more trouble for Steven than necessary. He takes the SIM card and crushes it between two fingers. Robert can afford to buy another one.

"You fuck–" Robert starts but thinks better of it when Bucky drops what remains of the chip. The glittering pieces land on the floor.

Someone is cackling at the door but Hannah is gone before Bucky can smile at her.

"What's your beef with Steven anyway?" Bucky offers Robert his phone back. It takes a few seconds before he snatches it out of the metal hand.

"Like you fucking care." He puts the scissors back on the desk and examines his phone.

"I do care. About Steven."

"Right." Robert Guy pushes buttons as if there was any chance in hell of getting his phone to work without the card.

"I know you want him out of here. For whatever reason."

Robert shrugs, but he doesn't dare look Bucky in the eye. Outside the room, the heavy footsteps of the two guys from management reach the fifth floor landing.

"James?" Hannah waves for him to come.

But Bucky is not yet finished here. It's time for some good old-fashioned intimidation. He closes in on Robert who reaches for the scissors but, hey, too late. The Winter Soldier puts his metal fingers lightly around Robert's throat. Robert does the right thing and relaxes into the grip: he doesn't move at all. At least a second degree Black Belt, Bucky suspects.

" _If_ ," the Winter Soldier says, "you ever try to get Steven evicted again… _If_ you're trying get this place turned into apartments for the rich… And if you as much as touch a hair on Steven's head – I will not stop at your phone." He shakes Robert a little, and Bucky can smell fear underneath the citrusy eau de cologne. "Understood?"

"Understood," Robert whispers.

The Winter Soldier lets him go. With a swipe of his boot, Bucky spreads the splinters of the SIM card around. He walks towards the door where Hannah is waiting for him. She looks relaxed and quite beautiful without sawdust covering her face. 

"Fucking queers," Robert mutters behind him.

It's too quiet for normal ears to hear and Bucky lets it go. He lets it go, but he will make sure that James knows. Perhaps James already figured out that Steven's neighbor is a homophobic classist prick, but Bucky's not taking chances.

In the hallway, the two guys from management are in front of Steven's studio. One knocks on the flimsy door, the other is on the phone. Three guesses as to whom he's trying to call back. Too bad that whatever evidence Prick Robert had on his phone is not gone with the card. Everybody stores everything in a cloud these days. Steven's not all out of this hot mess yet.

"Steven," the guy who's been knocking says. He's young underneath his scruffy beard and sounds friendly enough. The other guy is older, heavy-set. Brain and brawn, Bucky cannot help but think. But there's only a shrug from the Winter Soldier, and Bucky relaxes. The door to the studio opens, and Steven's standing there. He's going for a look of mild surprise on his face, but nobody's buying it, sorry sweetheart.

"We had a complaint about someone _abusing their privileges_ and living here in Art Space." Scruffy Guy makes finger quotes around the wording of the complaint, and Bucky likes him even better. 

"I've heard," Steven says. He winks at Bucky and turns to the two guys. "Wanna come in? We can talk inside my studio." He nods to Brawn, who flashes him a toothy smile, and okay, Steven can handle them.

"Come," Hannah whispers at Bucky's side. "I'll show you around while Steven talks to Malik and Pete."

Bucky hesitates. The futon and the suitcases up on the storage platform are kind of hard to miss. The door closes behind Brawn's, er, Pete's broad shoulders. 

"Steven's got a deal with Malik." Hannah raises her hand, slow and deliberate, and touches him very lightly at the wrist. Steven must have told her about not spooking James. "Robert doesn't know about it. And we want it to stay that way. So thanks for destroying the evidence." She smiles up to him. "I'm sure you're dying to see our comfy kitchen. Or do you want to go upstairs, to the roof? Or... oh, oh, I know. Let me show you the Metal Shop, James." 

_James._ Her smile takes a wicked turn, and Bucky remembers Hannah's working at the Tower, too. 

Well, okay then, let’s visit the Metal Shop. Bucky can pretend to be James for a little while.

★


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with a warning for a very minor injury and a short passage of Winter Soldier angst.

★

It's long into the afternoon when Bucky returns to the Tower. Steven is a whole other person than Steve, and yet Bucky has felt right at home with him: he automatically got on the train further down to Brighton Beach and only realized he was going in the wrong direction two stops south. Looking up now at the Tower’s facade, he fervently hopes Stark has the D-beamer ready for him to go home. He feels the sudden urge to turn around and take in this world, to remember it: the weekday afternoon rush of cars, bikes, Yellow Cabs and Ubers. Electric scooters have overtaken the sidewalks of New York City. The green horizon of Central Park and the Pershing Square Cafe are just like home. Even Bruce, who gets up from one of the outdoor tables and waves for him to wait, feels familiar.

Bucky nods at the two security guards. He doesn’t know them, and _this_ is different from home where he knows everybody in Security by name. He leans back against the outer skin of the Tower and waits for Bruce.

At home, their relationship is tentative. Steve is close to Bruce, but Bucky never got quite comfortable around him. As the man walks towards him, all scientist with his glasses and corduroy pants, the Winter Soldier comes up with a threat level of three percent. It's the same at home. Threat level three percent is toddlers and small furry animals. Which is why Bucky knows the Winter Soldier’s estimate is wrong. Bucky likes Bruce, he respects him, he will rely on all intel Bruce provides when it's science or medical. But Bucky doesn’t trust him one bit.

They're doing small talk in the elevator all the way up to the 63rd floor. Bucky wonders whether in this dimension, this is where Bruce has his secure lab. The elevator stops, the door slides open, and Bruce waves him good-bye. Bucky takes one second to make up his mind. There are questions he wants to ask Bruce, about James. And now is as good a time as ever. He steps into the hallway alongside Bruce. 

Bruce raises an eyebrow but says nothing as they walk down the hallway. It leads into a wider corridor; the left wall is made of thick translucent glass. Several people are standing there; one of them is Josip, the two others are Security – Jamison and Walter. Behind the glass wall is a hall; at its back are the holding cells. It's exactly the same in Bucky's universe. The Rage Cage for the Hulk is at very end of the hall, furthest away from the door. There, two technicians are testing the lock mechanism of the electronic Cage.

"Is something wrong with the Cage?" Bucky nods at Josip who gives him a grin.

"A glitch in the locking system," Bruce says. "I need to get an update." He quickly puts his hand on Bucky's arm, _be right back_ , enters the hall and joins the two technicians in front of the Cage. 

The glass wall is sparkling clean and perfectly translucent. You could walk right into it if not for the frames. But the wall is very thick. Bucky watches Bruce's unimposing figure shimmer green through the glass.

"Glitch, my ass." Josip snorts beside Bucky. "Human fuck-up, more like it."

Bucky turns towards Josip. Tiny glasses, dark hair sprinkled with grey, he's wearing his trademark blue janitor's coat. "Come again?"

Josip gives him a sly glance. "You're the new guy, right? Beamed right over from _another dimension?_ " His glasses have moved to the tip of his nose, and he pushes them back up. "Bucky, was it?" Josip's grin is so wide his tooth gaps are showing.

"I hoped they'd keep this stuff classified." Bucky is never again giving away his real name to strangers. James will do perfectly fine for first introductions, thank you very much.

Josip grunts. "Only security knows about you," he says. "The AI thought it wise to inform us." He snorts again.

 _The AI_. Just like Steven. Where Bucky's from, everyone calls JARVIS JARVIS. He sometimes forgets that JARVIS is a computer, and not just the voice of a very smart, very British butler. But here, there's no chance of forgetting that JARVIS is an artificial intelligence.

"What do you mean, human fuck-up?" he asks.

"Well." Josip sighs. His glasses are on the tip of his nose again. "It's fucking Stark."

Er. " _Tony_ Stark?"

"The very same." He rolls his eyes. Josip at home rolls his eyes about a thousand times a day. Coffee bar out of croissants, toilets stuck, deliveries misplaced somewhere between the entrance ramp and the kitchen – cue eye-roll Josip. Stark Industries interns are afraid of it, so Bucky hears. But Stark?

"I don't get it," he says in all honesty.

Josip eyes him through his glasses. "Guess you wouldn't. Your Stark still with Ms. Potts?"

"Yes." Bucky's seen them making out just a few hours before he landed himself in this mess.

"See." Josip nods wisely. And doesn't say another word.

"See what?" It's like pulling teeth or having a conversation with Nat when she doesn't want to give intel away. 

"Well..." He sighs another huge sigh. Bucky's waiting for the eye-roll, but it doesn't come. "Ever since Ms. Potts left for Europe, Stark has been out of it. Seriously _out of it_." 

"Preoccupied, not paying attention, you mean?" Dropping a screwdriver at the mention of Pepper's name.

"That's exactly what I mean. And –" Josip stops and checks on the others. 

The security guards are deep in conversation. Jamison's just returned from some kind of special training; she is telling Walter all about it. Inside at the holdings cells, Bruce is talking to the technicians. But the glass is too thick even for Bucky's enhanced hearing; he cannot overhear what they're saying.

"Nobody's listening in," Bucky says. "Only JARVIS," he adds on second thought.

"Sirs," JARVIS' voice comes softly from some undefined location, "may I assure you that I am only monitoring private conversations as much as they pertain to Tower security."

"Right, okay." Josip's eye-rolling at the ceiling. "But how do you explain this?" He waves at the room where Bruce is typing on a keyboard. He's probably trying to bring up the force field manually. It's what Bucky would do.

"I currently have no explanation." JARVIS sounds apologetic. "Mr. Stark has been alerted and will arrive presently to assist repairs."

"And isn't that just sweet." Josip shrugs at Bucky. "Sure, Stark comes and makes it all right again. It _is_ a computer glitch. But the AI is only glitching because Stark is glitching. And he's glitching massively." 

No reply from JARVIS, and the silence sends its own message. Bucky said something similar to Steven only this afternoon. _If the AI hates James, it means Stark hates James._

"So what has Stark done to JARVIS?" Bucky asks.

"No idea what the boss is feeding the AI. But the fuck-ups keep getting bigger. First, it was just little things, crazy stuff. The AI issued about a thousand reprimands about staff using too much cleaner. Maintenance was up in arms, I can tell you."

A cough drifts from the walls. "May I offer my sincere apologies again." 

"It's all right, laddie," Josip says. "We know it's not your fault. But it's gotten worse, doors malfunctioning, the fucking cheese delivery, heightened fluoride levels in the Tower water –"

"JARVIS ordering you to clean the stairs," Bucky says.

Josip freezes, then immediately stands straighter, drawing attention away from his bad leg. "Who told you that?" There is no eye-rolling, no exasperated snort. 

"Steven," Bucky replies quickly. Because shit: This particular glitch, he realizes, has been kept under wraps to spare Josip the humiliation. "Steven... um..." He's so taken aback by his own stupidity that only _Rogers_ comes to mind. 

The mention of Steven's name still does the trick. Josip relaxes and puts more weight on his good leg again. "The Proctor boy, you mean?" A fond smile appears on his face. "Quite the troublemaker. He will have the entire cleaning staff unionized by the end of the year." Josip doesn't look as if he'd mind the staff unionizing. He does take a step towards Bucky, though. "But why would Steven tell _you_ about Stark fucking with me like this?"

Behind the glass wall, Bruce is on the phone. He waves for Josip to come inside. The force field around the Rage Cage is still down. 

"It's a long story," Bucky says quickly. "He didn't mean to betray your confidence." This is what it must look like to Josip: that Steven gossiped about what happened to him. "James knows, too."

"Of course James knows. Who d'you think did most of the cleaning?" Josip turns away so fast Bucky almost misses the eye-roll. "Good talking to you, _Bucky_." He enters the room and walks straight towards the holding cells. His limp is less pronounced than Bucky remembers.

"He's gotten worse, you know?" 

_Damn!_ Bucky's so startled he almost – _almost_ – slams Tony fucking Stark against the wall, knife against his throat. The Winter Soldier cringes with embarrassment. _Sorry, pal, it's been years._ Bucky exhales and turns towards Stark, all calm and composed. "I don't know."

Stark shrugs. He's taking in what's happening at the holding cells. His grey sweatpants look even more disheveled than yesterday, but he's changed into a blue tee. His eyes have a shine to them that says he didn't get much sleep last night. 

"Josip's good at putting on a show," Stark says. "But he's not getting any younger. And his leg – well, let's just say, it's not a prosthesis, and Josip never got any kind of superman serum. Obviously." He turns to Bucky and looks him up and down. His eyes come to rest on his left arm. Bucky is still wearing one of James' jackets, but Stark focuses right on the spot where the red star is underneath. 

"Didn't we have a chip update planned?" he asks.

It's almost a relief that the Stark here is as weirdly obsessed with Bucky's arm as his counterpart at home. "I was going to come in for it later. Did you order JARVIS to have Josip clean the stairs?" 

For a full two seconds, Stark just stares at Bucky. Then, "What the fuck, Barnes? No, I certainly did not order JARVIS to have Josip clean the stairs. He doesn't want to hear it, but he's an old man." He lowers his voice. "Is that what Josip thinks? That it was on my _orders_? It was a fucking computer glitch."

"But you told JARVIS something, didn't you?"

"I had JARVIS put together a pension package for Josip." Stark steps nearer to Bucky. His hair is way longer than it suits him. And up close Bucky can see that the stubble on his chin is more than a five o'clock shadow. "I have no intention of letting him go. But I want to be prepared. Josip's earned himself a comfortable retirement, more than earned it. Fuck, he knew me when I was a smelly teenager. Came with me from Malibu to New York. But he won't take gifts. Stubborn ass. So. Retirement package. It needs to look convincing. Josip’s no idiot. And JARVIS is good at that kind of thing. We even added in a small apartment in the Tower. Josip belongs here. For the people, for morale." 

_For me_ , he doesn't say. But his yearning for a father figure runs like a red thread through Stark's life. Even his friendship with Steve is colored by it. And Bucky won't even pretend to understand what Stark has going on with Rhodey.

"What?" Stark asks. "Do you seriously think I'd have a seventy-eight year old man, my _friend_ , clean the stairs? He should have come to me at once when JARVIS gave him that stupid work order."

"Pride." It's not that Bucky doesn't understand. It's obvious why Steven and James helped Josip clean, but kept JARVIS' order a secret.

"Yes, fucking, asshorsery pride. Your Josip can't be so different from mine."

"Just the same. Refuses to even use a cane." 

Bucky grins at Stark whose face lights up. It turns him into a whole different person. Still tired, still rumpled – sweatpants just don't sit well on him – but with an edge to his expression that can be arrogant or brilliant or plain mind-blowing. It's the Stark Bucky knows, and he wishes Stark and Ms. Potts would put aside whatever differences are keeping her in Europe. If only so that Stark finishes inventing the D-beamer that will bring Bucky home.

"Tony?" Bruce comes to the door, balancing the laptop in one hand. "We can't get the force field up. We need a genius to help us out." He winks at Bucky. Threat level is down to two percent. It's eerie. But without the thick glass, there's no green shimmer on Bruce's face.

Stark replies with a huff and rubs a hand across his face. The edgy expression is gone when he turns back to Bucky. "I hear you're Head of Tower Security in your dimension." 

Bucky nods. "I've been –"

"These computer glitches, Barnes. An AI can pick up its owner's supposed intent and act upon it independently. It's the one logical explanation I have for that stupid work order Josip got. But this shit?" Stark gestures towards the holding cells. "Nothing to do with owner's intent."

"Nobody wants the Other Guy loose in the Tower." This comes from Bruce, of course.

"You haven't Hulked out in over two years," Stark says, exasperation lacing his voice. "Barnes, if you have any bright ideas about what could be causing those glitches, let me know." He takes the laptop out of Bruce's hand, nods to Security and walks into the room. Bucky can tell Jamison and Walter want to salute but don’t because Stark told them not to. Even he knows the feeling. Stark isn’t aware of it, which is a blessing, but authority, even military authority, comes naturally to him.

Bruce keeps standing in the hallway; he’s watching Stark march up to the Hulk’s Cage. Stark puts his hand on Josip’s shoulder and makes the technicians stop whatever they’re doing. Within seconds he has JARVIS bring up a hologram model of the Cage. He and Josip walk around it, Stark slower than usual, and Josip hiding his limp expertly. On one side, the hologram lines are flashing red, and Bucky realizes somebody must have disabled the alarms. With a breach like this, normally sirens would be sounding a steady alert all over the Tower.

Bucky steps towards the glass wall where Bruce is still standing in the doorway. What he's going to ask is strictly between the two of them. “The Hulk did make an appearance in the last two years, didn’t he?”

Bruce does not move; there’s no indication that the question takes him by surprise. Threat level two percent, my ass. But the Winter Soldier stands by his estimate.

“He did, yes,” Bruce says quietly.

“Because James attacked you.”

Bruce turns his head; he’s a bit smaller than Bucky but not much. “You’ve been snooping around James’ apartment.” It’s a friendly statement, there’s nothing reproachful in Bruce’s voice.

“Therapy sessions twice a week for the last two months. After three years of only medical check-ups. It’s what James’ date book says. I didn’t go looking for more.” Inside the room, the hologram fades and Stark is typing on the laptop. “But it caught my eye.”

“I asked him to go back into therapy. And we are having lunch together,” Bruce nods towards the elevators leading outside, “down in the café. Once a week.”

“How is he doing?”

Bruce shrugs. “Hard to tell. He doesn’t talk much. But he’s not getting worse, I think.” He hesitates. Stark has numbers floating in the air before the Cage. “His therapist says he’s fully recovered. He’s surprised there are still episodes of PTSD.”

“So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.” Bucky cannot help it. If James is anything like him, he’d be furious about such a breach of trust.

Bruce has the decency to wince. He is, Bucky knows, a fundamentally decent guy. Still something hardens in his face. “I know the feeling, believe me. But there’s a reason why there's an electronic Rage Cage in the Tower.” He makes a small aborted gesture towards the Cage where Stark is staring at the numbers. “There's a reason why Tony has a chair in his lab where James can be secured. We are not safe – James isn't, and I'm not either.” He turns his whole body towards Bucky. 

It’s not an aggressive move, not at all. Rather, Bruce is being polite by giving him his full attention. But Bucky’s instincts say to take a few steps back, and the only reason he doesn’t is the Winter Soldier's trust in this guy. 

“I don’t know you, Bucky,” Bruce says. “But from what you told us, you have someone at home to keep you safe. James does not have that.”

And neither does Bruce. Bucky’s about to mention Steven, because Bruce doesn't quite have it right. There _is_ someone in this world who’s keeping James safe, whether he knows it or –

“Sir,” JARVIS’ voice comes from inside the room, “structural failure is imminent.” It's so quiet Bruce can't possibly hear it. 

Still Bruce notices something’s going on. “What’s happening?”

“I advise immediate system shutdown,” JARVIS says inside. It’s the JARVIS Bucky knows and relies upon 1000 per cent in missions. No hesitation, no bland tone. 

“The Cage is about to collapse,” Bucky quickly explains. He makes eye contact with Jamison and Walter. They are already standing at attention, and Bucky waves for them to enter the room and get the civilians out. They follow his order promptly. 

“I urgently advise to abort VERONICA programing, Sir. It’s not compatible with the Cage.” 

Bruce cannot hear what JARVIS is saying but the wailing alarm starting up in the hallway is unmistakable. _Air raid!_ Bucky’s instinctive reaction comes from a place in his bones, too deeply ingrained even for Hydra to reach. In the Tower the wailing alarm means _Civilian Lives Endangered_.

“What's he doing?” Bruce moves to enter the room but Bucky holds him back.

They struggle briefly, just as inside the room Josip struggles against Walter who’s trying to lead him outside. Bucky wins because Bruce is a sensible guy, Walter because she is much stronger than Josip. 

Jamison has the hardest job. Bucky can just watch, metal hand around Bruce’s wrist, as Jamison approaches Stark. Stark shoves her away when a blast erupts. 

It drowns out everything – JARVIS’ voice, Stark’s annoyed scream, even the wailing siren. An electric current, bright orange, runs along the whole length of the Cage, bursts quickly into flames, and dies down just as fast. 

The technicians are crouching in the hallway, Walter’s sheltering Josip with her body. The Winter Soldier’s pulled Bruce away from the glass and is holding him against the opposite wall. _Well done, pal._

There is no smoke. Stark and Jamison are on the floor. On first glance, the Hulk's Cage looks the same but a pattern of small dark squares is covering its walls – the electrical meshing within the wall has burnt through. On the back wall, the plaster has been blasted off, there’s busted wiring sticking out. What Bucky can see of the inside of the wall looks unsalvageable.

“Let me go,” Bruce groans. “I need to check on him.”

The Winter Soldier is reluctant, but Bucky looses his grip on Bruce. He enters the room, long quick strides, calm and assured. He’s a doctor, Bucky remembers, a real doctor, not just someone with a PhD. Bruce splinted fractures in a war zone; he dug bullets out of living flesh. He held watch over a child dying from starvation when he’d come too late and there was nothing he could do. _Three percent? Seriously?_ For once, the Winter Soldier keeps his estimate to himself.

Bruce checks first on Jamison who's already on her feet again, then he turns to Stark. There’s blood on Stark’s cheek but nothing too serious that Bucky can see. Stark is bitching and moaning but shuts up when Bruce tells him something that is too quiet even for Bucky’s ears.

”Human fuck-up. Like I said,” Josip mutters beside Bucky. “Or does this still look like a computer glitch to you?” He rolls his eyes in the inimitable Josip way and Bucky finds himself agreeing with him. Stark is not himself. It makes sense then that JARVIS is not himself, either.

“Sir, should I inform medical?“ JARVIS asks inside the room. He does sound like the JARVIS Bucky knows.

But Stark and Bruce are already at the burnt-out cage, discussing tredec-chips, monsoon performances and mistral efficiencies. It’s all way above Bucky’s pay grade.

But he has his own field of expertise. Spies, more so than assassins, need to be good at human psychology. The Winter Soldier was an excellent spy because Bucky has always been good at reading people. These were the covert missions, the ones that did not necessarily leave dead bodies behind. And Bucky wonders. _He_ had Steve around to hone his people skills. But James? He's close to Stark, calls him Tony – they are friends. Even Steven said so, and Steven's people skills are excellent. But what if Stark is playing James?

Bucky knows nothing about James' Winter Soldier days; and he cannot simply assume that James' past was just like his own. It's safe to suspect that Winter Soldier James was a world-class assassin. But perhaps... perhaps he was a terrible spy. The Winter Soldier doesn't like where Bucky's thoughts are going. But it's high time for Bucky to find out whether, in this dimension too, he killed Stark’s parents.

★

"What? No!“ 

Bruce is not a man who easily shows his emotions. But he's gone rigid when Bucky told him about the Winter Soldier's mission of December 16, 1991.

"This did not happen in our world," Bruce whispers.

They're sitting in the medical area, after Bruce finally got Stark to have the cut on his face checked out. Stark refused to have Dr. Cho called in for a _mere scratch_ – Stark's words, certainly not Bruce's. Now he's with the unlucky doctor who has the after-hours shift tonight.

Bucky tells Bruce about the video. In his world it is proof, indisputable proof that Stark's parents died by his hand. 

"There's no such video here," Bruce says. "Tasha, Fury, Tony, Agent Coulson and his people – they went through the Hydra data dump with a very fine comb. If such a video existed they would have found it."

For James' sake, Bucky hopes Bruce is right. He sounds sure enough but fact is: if Stark found the video and decided not to tell the Avengers, Bruce would not know. Once Bruce is over the first shock, he will realize this flaw in his reasoning. 

"Tony's parents died in a car accident," Bruce says, and Bucky nods. "For a while, Nick Fury suspected Roxxon Oil was behind it, but nothing came of it. Howard Stark loved sports cars; he loved to drive fast. He and his wife died in a sports car going over 85 miles per hour."

The waiting area is spacious; the floor-to-ceiling windows give a wide view of New York City. The sky turns purple in the east. This is Bucky's second nightfall in this dimension.

 _Steve_ , he thinks. Even this is owed to Steve. The Red Room had a twisted sense of humor. Let the Winter Soldier kill his old friend from the Great Patriotic War, ha ha. But here, James was never friends with Howard. They fought on the same battlefields but rarely crossed paths.

"How well did you know Howard Stark?" Bruce asks. His mind is obviously going to the same places as Bucky's. 

"Steve introduced us," he says. "I've always wanted to be a mechanic but the brass thought I'd make a better sniper." He shrugs. "We worked together on some improvements to my Springfield rifle." 

He has a few memories of Howard's workshop, the smell of machine oil and liquid solder, a sense of space and chaos, with an underlying order. The video Hydra had commanded the Winter Soldier to record is much clearer in his mind. The Soldier still flinches at the stupidity of making such a recording. And Bucky cannot get the images out of his head, Howard's hair, the blood on Mrs. Stark's face. It's hard to tell whether he actually remembers, or whether what he remembers are the images of the video.

He feels Bruce's hand on his thigh and looks up. The waiting area lies in a soft grey twilight; JARVIS has not turned on the light. The sundown paints pink stripes on Bruce's face.

"James and Tony are often together in the labs. James does have a mechanic's mind." Bruce's smile is soft. "They work well together."

"But something is not right, is it?"

Bruce leans back. "I don't know more than what you already figured out. James' PTSD is acting up. He attacked Clint last summer during a mission." There's a muffled noise from the examination room. Bruce looks over to the closed door but turns back to Bucky. "He came for me with a gun." He speaks very calmly, but he's lowered his voice.

"When was that?" Bucky asks. A quick clean shot is not bad choice if you're going for a civilian who will turn into an oversized Rage Monster if attacked. "Does Stark know? The other Avengers?"

Outside the horizon is on fire. Bucky is turned towards Bruce, away from the window. The flaming sundown is reflected in Bruce's glasses.

"He ambushed me when I returned from Boston. Early February. Down at the café." Bruce moves one hand towards his upper arm, an instinctive gesture. "James clearly was somewhere else, caught in a flashback. Not the war, I think, but a mission. He said a few words, not to me: replies to commands. He approached me in the café, pulled me into the back alley, shot me when I tried to get away. But he missed. James is an expert shooter; he never misses. But somehow he missed me. Enough time for the Other Guy to come out." He smiles the tortured smile he always smiles when talking about the Hulk. "James could have killed me, and he didn't. It's why I never told the Avengers." He rubs a bit over his upper arm then drops the hand in his lap. "But I asked James to go back into therapy. And he did."

Bucky doesn't like thinking about his own flashbacks. How the streets turned eerily quiet, how his jacket became tight like the Winter Soldier's vest. It had felt real, logical, dangerous – nothing like a dream. Even now, sitting on comfortable chairs in Avengers' Tower, with the darkness enfolding them, Bucky's heart is beating faster.

"And Stark?" he asks, and just like that, the atmosphere changes. 

Bruce tenses beside Bucky, imperceptible for anyone without super soldier senses. But it's more. They are sitting in the soft light. Fresh air's circulating steadily through the room. The doors to the examination rooms and offices are closed; everyone has left for the day. Bucky listens but it's so quiet he can hear the traffic down on street-level. And yet the stillness is watchful. Expectant. Bucky has the distinct feeling that JARVIS is listening in on their conversation. Which, well, he always does. But this feels different.

Bruce clears his throat. "It's Pepper. Tony's just no good without her."

Bucky can relate. He's no good without Steve, hates it when Steve goes on missions without him. "But why did she leave? Where I come from, Ms. Potts is running Stark Industries. She wouldn't just go and leave for Europe."

"Oh, she's still running Stark Industries," Bruce says. "Tony owns a lot of business in Europe. And she has Bambina Arbogast in the Tower for day-to-day transactions. Bambi turned out to be quite the capable CEO. Tony, of course, hates it. I don't think he's spoken to Bambi since Pepper left."

"Could she be behind whatever's causing these glitches?" It's unlikely but Bucky has to ask. Someone, in all of what is different in this dimension, is causing trouble, and who knows – maybe it's Bambi.

"That is quite impossible, Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS cuts in, and Bucky feels actual relief at hearing his voice. It's way better than the ominous silence. "Ms. Arbogast's access to the Tower's systems is restricted to finances and business."

Bruce, too, shakes his head. "She's worked with Pepper for years. And she's been vetted by Fury _and_ Maria."

"So, why did Pepper leave?"

"It's Tony's new research." Bruce sighs. "And whatever is going on privately between the two of them." He looks towards the examination room. "He denies it, but _someone_ had six boxes of Emmental cheese delivered to Pepper. From Switzerland. This was back in November." 

"But... Ms. Potts doesn't eat cheese," Bucky says haltingly. Whoever's been to an Avengers' movie night knows that Pepper is lactose-intolerant. She always orders her pizza with _tomato sauce only, no cheese_.

Bruce nods. "Normally I'd suspect Tony was going for a grand gesture that misfired spectacularly. But Pepper wouldn't have left if he'd just forgotten she cannot eat cheese." He's turned his body slightly, more towards the examination room. "There's more to it, but Tony won't talk to me. He claims it's all a computer glitch."

There's a small embarrassed cough from JARVIS. 

"It's okay, JARVIS, nobody's blaming you." Bruce waves toward the ceiling, and it strikes Bucky how real the gesture is. This is how Bruce would wave to a person, reassuring them. And, Bucky realizes, it's only the brass in the Tower who call JARVIS JARVIS. Steven, Josip. And Jamison and Walter, now that he recalls the quiet conversation between them at the holding cells – they were calling JARVIS _the AI_ , too. 

"What is Stark's research about?"

Bruce turns to Bucky. "What?"

"You said Pepper also left because of Stark's new research."

"Right." Bruce shifts on the chair. "It's actually going to help you. Tony wasn't working on dimension travel. He'd put the D-beamer on hold. But now that you've arrived I think he's going to use the new chips for it."

"But what's Pepper's problem with the research?"

"She thinks Tony is back working for the military." Bruce takes off his glasses and rubs over the frames. The light on his face has changed to orange. 

"And is he?"

Bruce sighs. "No, and yes. Tony is developing a new generation of chips. Of course they can be used by the military, _if_ they get their hands on it. But Tony is not working on weapons. It's all robotics for him, how to interface robotics with artificial intelligence." He points at Bucky's arm. "His work will make prostheses like yours not only more efficient but also much cheaper. His research will give a lot of people a better life. Not just soldiers but civilians, too. People who suffered accidents. People who had to go through amputations because of illness." He pauses, gives his glasses one last rub and puts them on again. "Victims of land mines. Kids who stepped on mines buried in their soccer field."

And here's why Bruce is invested in Tony's new research. He's laying it out clearly so Bucky understands: Tony is doing good work. Pepper is overreacting. It's something personal between them, and Bruce has no idea what it is.

Bucky still needs to ask. "Those new chips – could they be used in an Air Force weapons system?"

Bruce looks up. "Possibly." 

"Anything to do with 30x173mm cartridges?"

Now Bruce sits up. "That's oddly specific, Sergeant Barnes." His tone is playful but he is looking Bucky straight in the eye. "Care to explain where this is coming from?"

Bucky is struggling to not evade his gaze. He does _not_ care to give his intel away. It's Steven's intel, after all. "So Tony's research has to do with 173mm cartridges. I am starting to see where Pepper's coming from."

That last line is bait, and Bruce, genius holder of several doctorates, beautifully takes it. He shakes his head. "Tony's not working on a weapons system. But the new chips he's developing, they could be used for one. These chips, once they are patented, will be used for almost anything. Tony already decided to not sell them directly to the government. But they will get their hands on them eventually. There's nothing Tony can do, short of stopping the entire development. Pepper knows this, better even than Tony. It makes no sense that she would leave him over this. It just doesn't make sense." 

Bruce's voice has gone quiet on his last words; he's talking as much to himself as to Bucky. 

"Odd," Bucky says and turns to watch the sky. It's become a muted palette of purples and greys, a last orange glow in the west and the sliver of the waning moon sharp above them.

Behind him he can feel Bruce nodding. "Odd," he says, "that a guy from the cleaning crews would know about Air Force specs. Steven Proctor, was it?"

Those doctorates are worth something, after all. Or Bruce is just naturally a clever guy. "Steven _Grant_ Proctor," Bucky says.

"Ah," comes from Bruce. "So there is a Captain America in our world, after all."

Bucky shakes his head. "He's not Captain America. But he's Steve. _Steven._ And he didn't know about the cartridge specs, just the numbers. Something-one-seven-three."

They're wrapped in darkness. Bucky turns to see Bruce staring up at the ceiling. The fading light is shimmering darkly on his glasses. To sit here feels intimate like missions feel intimate: common purpose, common danger, trying to figure out the next move. 

"Could mean anything," Bruce says quietly. "Like, in theoretical chemistry, there's speculation the element with the number 173 would act like an alkali metal, and be far more reactive even than cesium."

It's all clear as mud to Bucky. But he gets Bruce's point. Whatever numbers Steven overheard James saying to JARVIS, they don't even have to be related to weapons specs. "Radical 173 is rain in the Kangxi system," he says.

Bruce laughs quietly. "They taught you how to write Chinese?"

Bucky shrugs. "Came in handy a couple of times." He can't explain what it meant for him, learning the characters and being allowed to paint them, stroke for stroke. His therapist wanted him to take up calligraphy, but Bucky can't. It's not a hobby for him. 

"I wonder whether James knows it, too." Bruce' voice is soft, relaxed.

Bucky, who's read Chinese in James' secret notebooks, says, "He knows." Memories rise in him, the smell of ink, the soft noise of a brush on paper.

"I wonder –" But before Bruce can finish the thought, the door of the examination room flies open with a bang.

They both shoot up from their chairs. The Winter Soldier at once puts his body between Bruce and whatever threat comes from the examination room.

It is, of course, just Stark. But he has a way of entering a room that can feel like a threat.

"JARVIS, lights on," he calls. "Why the fuck are you two sitting in the dark?"

Bright light floods the waiting area. The soft greys transform into powder-blue walls, orange chairs and wood parquet the color of honey.

Stark doesn't even have a band-aid on his cheek, but someone washed off the blood. And he clearly had a shave. There's a fresh scent around him that's different from Stark's own brand of ridiculously expensive eau de cologne.

Bruce gets up from behind Bucky. He puts a hand on Bucky's shoulder, a gesture of gratitude, says, "We're just talking. Are you all right?"

"Peachy, Banner. But Dr. Miller here insisted I needed a shave."

Bruce looks over to the doctor, standing in the door of the examination room. She nods and mouths, _He's fine._

Stark takes two steps towards Bucky. "You," he points a finger at the metal arm. "You're coming with me. There's one thing I'm going to do right today. And that's giving you a new chip for your arm."

★

When the chip locks into place, Bucky doesn't even notice. There is no fizzing of electric currents, no sound, nothing. It certainly doesn't feel as if anything has changed. Stark has him balling his fingers into a fist repeatedly but the movement feels like it always does.

Stark makes no mention of the burnt-out Rage Cage a few floors below. He offered Bucky a swivel stool to sit during the update, which Bucky highly prefers to the fucking chair. No clamps, no confining arm rests, nothing behind his head that looks as if it could drill holes into his skull. And the stool itself makes a good enough weapon, should something go wrong during the _procedure_.

From this close Bucky can see the fine cuts on Stark's cheek. They're sealed with some kind of liquid bandaging. Stark certainly looks more alert, without the stubble. 

"Had a hell of a time locating the schematics for the discarded dimension beamer." Stark uses his bare fingers to check whether the chip sits tight. Bucky does _not_ like human fingers up his arm. How about a pair of surgical gloves, at least? "Never thought anything would come of it. Didn't think quantum technology could be used like this but apparently I did use it. You...“ He looks at Bucky as if he would like to tap his chest but luckily, his right hand is in Bucky's arm and the other occupied with the screwdriver. ”You're living proof of it. And I have a couple of ideas, but they didn't work before. It's not as if I haven't tried basically anything. Nothing's worked. I've only gotten a couple of smashed robots to show for my efforts." Stark nods over to where, Bucky swears, Dum-E and U are trembling with fear. Then Stark removes his fingers from the arm and looks Bucky in the face. "James is not wholly incompetent when it comes to quantum physics. What about you? Any bright ideas how I did it?" 

Quantum physics. Bucky inwardly rolls his eyes, but decides to study up on it the minute he's back home. _Not wholly incompetent_ from Stark means James must be a fucking quantum genius. And when James can do it, so can he.

The ever-present electronic whir seems overly loud. For the first time since he came in, there is no other sound in the lab. Bucky feels boxed in here between the workbench and Stark; he wants to get out. He came because, well, Stark didn't exactly give him a choice. And hey, chip update. Steve would not let him live it down if he'd refused better tech for his arm, no matter where it came from. Also, JARVIS is an ever-nagging pain in the ass in this dimension. 

But the quiet means Stark is actually waiting for an answer. Bucky shakes his head. "Sorry, I have no idea." Something flashes through his mind. "Pym... particles?" He must have picked it up from when Bruce and Stark were talking.

Stark presses down on the wrist compartment of the arm and it snaps shut. "There are no _Pym_ particles," he says. "I have no idea what Hank Pym is up to these days. Guy's old school. Secretive about his research. I don't think he ever worked in a team. His last published article is from the 80's and it had such a ridiculous title that I –" He stops, taps the butt end of the screwdriver against his perfect white teeth, mutters, "If he goes subatomic, Planck mass doesn't apply and..." 

Stark keeps going but it's only gibberish to Bucky. He's clearly become a witness to a light bulb going off in Tony Stark's brain. 

"Am I done?" he asks. He moves the metal arm off the workbench. And freezes. There _is_ a difference, a notable one. Bucky gets off the swivel chair and clenches both his hands. A quick flash of nausea hits him and is gone the next moment. He unclenches the fists and yep, this is new. There used to be a minute time delay in the way the metal arm reacts. He's gotten used to it, barely notices it anymore. But this, now – it feels as if he's clenching one hand, not two. 

Stark's still muttering to himself. He points with the screwdriver into the air. "JARVIS, give me the model of Pym's particle accelerator. Feed it with the data from the 1986 experiments he mentions in the article on Giant-Man."

"Processing," JARVIS replies, and a bright circle appears above the workbench. Stark moves it into the open space of the lab, and the circle becomes a tube of white light. There's movement inside, so fast that even Bucky with his super soldier eyes can only see that _something_ is moving but not what. On one side of the circular tube, blue pinpricks of light hover. It looks fascinating but it's been a long day. Bucky has a sudden vision of James' apartment at night – the darkness and solitude call to him. 

"Am I done?" he asks again.

Stark clearly has forgotten Bucky. Like a wizard with a wand, he moves the screwdriver around. The blue lights change position while columns of numbers flash up beside the circle. Red ciphers flit over Stark's face.

"Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS says quietly. "The chip update is complete. Your presence is no longer required. Thank you for coming in."

"All right." Bucky walks out of the lab. He closes the glass door softly behind himself, and the electronic lock clicks shut. Stark is working on Bucky's way back to his own life, after all. Best not disturb him.

On the way to the elevators, Bucky clenches the metal hand again. He rolls his metal shoulder, back and forth. There's always pain, ghost-like, but something has changed in the way the tech translates his neural feed. It feels more... _natural_. Or rather, it feels perfectly automated like it hasn't before. Neat. He brings his fingertips together, and it feels like one single movement that doesn't have a right and a left side to it. Bucky swallows. A sudden burst of saliva fills his mouth. His stomach is growling. No wonder: he hasn't eaten since breakfast with Stevie back in the studio. Maybe James has cookies hidden in his kitchen cabinets.

When he approaches the elevators, Bucky notices a board on the wall. It's a digital screen with the Stark logo on it. The look is old-fashioned but more like a design choice than something that actually comes from the era when computer screens were black and the letters green. Bucky stops in front of it. The screen lists today's dinner choices offered at the cafeteria for Stark Industries employees. 

_Prime cut (cow)_ , it says, and again saliva gathers in Bucky's mouth. He's incredibly hungry.

"JARVIS, where is the Tower cafeteria?"

"On floor 27, Sergeant Barnes."

Just like at home, Bucky thinks.

And JARVIS says, "Dinner is served from 1700 to 2200."

★

The large room lies in darkness. The only source of light is the city outside. It's like a carpet, glittering stars and stripes interwoven with darker patches. He's so far up; the Tower overshadows all other buildings in the wider perimeter.

The M4 on his thigh feels heavy and familiar; he's sitting on the army mat directly at the window. The safety glass is too thick but if this were a rooftop, he could feel the breeze. He could feel how even the air slows down at night.

Close perimeter check: all clear. Wider perimeter check: nothing unusual as far as he can see. Central Park lies quietly underneath him. The ocean in the east is indistinguishable from a bank of low-hanging clouds. 

He looks down at the phone in his right hand. Its blue light has gone off but the female voice keeps speaking. He's been listening to it for a minute and 14 seconds now, 15 seconds, 16... 

"We are sorry but the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. For further assistance, please call Washington area AT&T." The AT&T jingle jingles. And again the female voice says, "We are sorry but the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. For further assistance, please call Washington area AT&T."

He pushes the off button, presses the numbers in again with his thumb. The numbers appear on the screen of the phone. He knows them by heart. Two-oh-two. Five-five-six. Three-one-seven-three.

"... the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. For further assistance, please call Washing– " 

He shuts off the phone and gets up. There's a protocol for when he cannot reach the handler. He knows what he needs to do, knows his mission. The M4 smells faintly of machine oil. The metal hand slides down the weapon, assessing it. It's cleaned, oiled and loaded. Combat-ready. He tightens his grip and carries it easily when he leaves the room.

He enters the small bedroom. This is his apartment, his room. He doesn't need to turn on the light to find what he's looking for. He reaches underneath the linen and takes the garrote. An assault rifle won't do him much good on tonight's mission. The garrote is the best weapon for what he's been ordered to do.

"JARVIS," he says quietly, "is Stark in his lab?"

"Yes, Sergeant." The answer comes at once, precise and mechanical.

The Winter Soldier leaves the M4 at the backdoor and steps out of the apartment. Behind him, the metal door falls shut. It's only five floors down the stairs. There's no need for elevators.

★


	6. Chapter 6

★

"Sergeant Barnes' DNA matches the one I have on record, Sir. The prosthesis, too, is exactly the same."

"So how are we sure he's still this Bucky character, and not James?"

"Of course he's not James. Don't you people have eyes in your head? James' hair is longer. And he doesn't even _own_ a red Henley."

"The mounting date of the tredec-core chip, Sir. It is 12/4/2019. Sergeant James Barnes' update was done much earlier than yesterday."

Bucky groans. What's Steven doing here? And speaking of, where the hell is _here?_ He opens his eyes and immediately squeezes them shut again. The light is way too bright. He cannot move, is strapped into the fucking lab chair – again. Iron clamps around his upper arms and ankles – again. Out of sheer instinct, Bucky struggles to get free. But the fucking things won't budge. Of course they won't. But his attempt to get free has not been wholly useless: he can feel a weapon, boring into his side. His SIG. He must have gotten it from the side of James' bed. But –

"Bucky?" Clint's voice is calm. Bucky opens his eyes again and squints at them.

They're in the lab, Stark's lab. And Bucky's having a fucking déjà-vu – he in the lab chair and the Avengers around him. Clint and Tasha, Stark and Bruce. _Where is Steve?_ , he almost asks. But Steve's here. Steven Grant Proctor. He's standing with his back to him, pressed against Bucky's side and glancing over his shoulder towards Bucky. 

_What the hell!_ he wants to scream but it comes out as a croak. 

For Steven is holding the Shield. The little guy is holding Captain America's Shield. Shielding, it looks like, Bucky. Against Stark who's gripping a screwdriver like it's a weapon. Bruce is hovering behind Stark. A metal disk the size of the Millennium Falcon is lying on the floor, one of its panels broken. At its side a red light keeps blinking.

_The metal disk on the workbench, a hologram of it shimmering in the air. Stark stands in front of it, unarmed, his back towards the door._

The memory flashes through Bucky's mind with an overexposed, stark vividness like no real memory ever does. "What the fucking hell?" he whispers. 

Stark's hair is a wild mess. His shirt is ripped at the collar. The hand with the screwdriver is shaking so hard it's a blur. And the screwdriver – it's dripping _something_ to the floor. Just when Bucky realizes it's blood, pain registers in his right forearm. _His blood._ The hole in the sweater is tiny but the cotton wool is soaked. 

"You need to unstrap Bucky from the chair." Steven is holding the Shield all the way up to his chin. By the Winter Soldier's calculation, it'd protect Steven and Bucky from anything coming from Stark or Bruce. Or from the robots standing back in the corner. But Steven is looking straight at Clint. "We need to get out of the Tower."

"He attacked Tony," Clint says. "Until we know more, we have to consider him a threat."

 _I'm not a fucking threat_ , Bucky wants to say because, seriously, _he_ is the one strapped to a chair. But... His stomach growls. He had dinner last night, in the Tower cafeteria; he can still taste the beef roast, carrots, the Yorkshire puddings on his tongue. But he has no memory of actually having eaten. He has no memory of entering James' apartment. He has no memory of going to bed. He has no – 

"It wasn't Bucky," Steven says. "You need to let him out of the chair." His voice is shaking. He looks at them, one after the other, as if he could convince them by the sheer power of his baby-blues. 

Stark lowers the screwdriver, and now Bucky sees the strangulation marks around his neck. The coloring goes from blood-red to deep purple. Whoever attacked Stark meant business. The Winter Soldier, Bucky thinks, would use the steel garrote if he were ordered to kill Stark. It needs an element of surprise but it's quiet. And fast. Death in under three minutes. And without the Iron Man suit, Stark is no match, strength-wise, for the Winter Soldier. Shit.

_A glittering carpet underneath him, glittering stars and stripes interwoven with darker patches._

The memory comes with a stab of pain in Bucky's head. _What the..._ There's movement at the corner of his eyes; he turns his head and sees Tasha, twirling a garrote in her hand. Thin like piano wire. The handles are steel, too. The garrote is the Widow's weapon of choice but everybody in the Red Room was trained to use it. Bucky has no doubt that it's the same garrote that was hidden under James' sheets not 24 hours ago.

"JARVIS, give me your current threat assessment of Sergeant Barnes," Clint says. 

"Bucky is not the threat." Steven keeps glancing back and forth between Bucky and Clint. "You don't get it, do you? Can't you see what's happening?" He's talking to all of them now. Bucky has no idea what Steven's getting at. What the fuck _is_ happening? But then Steven says, "We _need_ to get out of the Tower." And Bucky believes him. They need to leave.

"Sergeant Barnes' heart rate is elevated, I detect signs of confusion and high levels of stress. He is armed with four knives and a semi-automatic pistol" – _again, thanks for nothing, JARVIS_ – "a weapon usually locked away in his quarters. Bringing an automatic weapon into the lab constitutes a violation of the current Tower security pro–"

"He's got the SIG on him?" Tasha checks out Bucky, a military muster, assessing stand of arms. For a moment, her gaze focuses on his left side, then moves on. She is good, he has to give her that. But it's not as if he could reach for the gun. 

"Estimated threat level at eighty-five percent," JARVIS states. "I advise to keep Sergeant Barnes secured until further assessment has been concluded."

Eighty-fucking-five? _The hell?_ The Winter Soldier does his own estimate and comes up with a measly fifty-five, even accounting for the gun, once he is free and can actually use it. JARVIS is exaggerating. JARVIS never exaggerates. 

"There must be a record of what happened here," he says. Finally he's back in control of his voice. Other than that, he has no idea what's going on. He _attacked Stark?_

He got dinner, this he remembers, _beef roast, carrots, Yorkshire puddings_. But he has no memory of having eaten, no memory of ordering food, of chit-chatting with the cafeteria personnel, no memory of other customers or even where he sat. Which means memory loss. Substantial memory loss. Bucky's skin goes cold. He yanks at the clamps again, instinctively. All it gets him are burns on his right wrist. The Winter Solder comes up with possible explanations: PTSD episode, stroke, blow to the head, drug-induced amnesia. He didn't have a stroke, not that he thinks. And this time he fucking didn't knock himself out by accident.

"There is indeed a record, Sergeant Barnes. It shows –"

"We've seen the security footage of the lab, Bucky," Clint says. "It doesn't look good."

"It wasn't him." Steven sounds exasperated. He's turned the Shield towards Clint and Tasha. Left flank wide open, comes from the Winter Soldier. Tasha, Bucky notices, moves her hand inward. She is standing close to him, in front of Clint. Shielding _him_.

"What wasn't me?" Bucky asks. But he knows. In his mind loops a night-time conversation up in James' apartment: _"Is Stark in his lab?" – "Yes, Sergeant."_ Again and again. _"Is Stark in his lab?" – "Yes, Sergeant."_

"He wasn't himself. I told you," Steven says. He's talking to Clint now but looking at Stark. "He was reporting to the AI. Mr. Stark, please..." 

"Security is on their way to have Mr. Proctor escorted from the lab," JARVIS cuts in. "I've alerted them to the situation."

"Hold this order, JARVIS. I don't want security up here." Stark's eyes are bright, and his voice is hoarse. 

"I am sorry, Sir, but Security is already on the way." JARVIS does not even sound apologetic. "Mr. Proctor will be escorted from the premises. May I advise that his work contract be terminated at the earliest date possible? There have been numerous complaints about his excessive use of cleaners and –"

"Voice off, JARVIS," Stark barks out. He let's the screwdriver fall to the floor, or maybe it slipped from his hand and he doesn't care. "Intruder alert," he says. Quiet but precise. The command must be voice-activated. "Isolate Lab One and the back stairwell from the Tower's systems."

The lights do not flicker, no alarms are blaring. They all stand in silence. Well, all stand but Bucky, who's strapped into the fucking chair. But Steven lowers the Shield, and something in Bucky relaxes with relief. Stark turns around and stares at Dum-E and U. 

"Tony," Bruce says but Stark holds up his hand, signaling them to wait.

Looking towards the robots, Bucky sees the night sky beyond the window. Outside it's dark, the middle of the night. He cannot have been out more than three hours, tops. A shudder runs through U, then Dum-E moves its picker arm. The metal hand whirs and opens, holding up two of its claws in a V.

Stark releases a breath and rubs one hand over his face. They all relax.

"The Victory sign?" Clint sounds more baffled by the V than the fact that Stark has just shut JARVIS out of the lab. "Seriously, Stark?"

"What? Did you want the Okay sign?" Stark marches off into the corner where the robots are. 

Clint shakes his head. "There's hundreds of sign languages available in the world, and he teaches them Victory and Okay," he mutters but the relief that Bucky feels is audible in Clint's voice.

Stark opens U's access panel and types in a command. Now the lights flicker, but before they die down, emergency lighting blinks on. The muted strip on the floor becomes visible; it leads towards the exits. Stark is rummaging around on the shelves. He doesn't even look at the Iron Man suits. Corrupted, Bucky thinks. If JARVIS is corrupted, so are the armored suits.

"We're leaving the Tower?" Clint's assessing the lab, its points of ingress and egress. A red light is flashing on the control panel at the glass door. The stairs leading up to the entrance of the lab are dark. "Elevators won't work."

"Back stairs." Bruce nods towards the emergency exit, and Tasha says, "Security's going to be here any minute..." 

There's a crash, someone's forcing open the door at the top of the stairs. Light spills down and uniformed security comes stomping down.

"Er," Bucky says because he's still strapped to the fucking chair. "Would someone..."

Steven turns, the Shield in front of him. He's a small, slender man, features fragile like a bird's but sharp. You'd never think _starlet_ when you look at him; you'd think _eagle_ , bird of prey. There's a Captain America in every Steve, Bucky thinks, just as Steven puts down the Shield. He snatches the remote from the clutter on the workbench, and before anyone can stop him, presses the buttons. The iron bands around Bucky's arms and ankles snap open. _Finally._

"Thanks, sweetheart." Bucky gets up, rubs his wrist, and Steven says, "You're welcome, punk." Bucky spends a long moment to shoot him a grateful grin. Then he picks up the Shield. It's their best protection in case Security makes it into the lab before they're gone. 

Stark found what he's been looking for on the shelves, a couple of small black items wrapped in plastic. He and Bruce are removing U's camera – and the recording chip, the motherboard, Bucky has no idea what exactly. Stark shoves whatever it is into a backpack that he straps on. He and Bruce leave the dismantled robot and Dum-E in the corner and run towards the back exit door. Clint holds it open for them. He has his bow strapped to the back. Tasha has her guns aimed at Security who are trying, unsuccessfully so far, to open the glass door to the lab. No one has raised a weapon yet. Bucky's been hoping for Jamison and Walter but it's not them. 

"You know these guys, Clint?" Stark hands Clint one of the plastic-wrapped things while he's giving Security a long once-over. 

"Nope," Clint stands solid like a rock, the exit door at his back. "Not eager to get to know them, either." He examines the thing in his hand. "What's this?"

"Latest model iPhone. JARVIS is corrupted. Stark phones are useless." Stark turns to Bucky. "Barnes, do you know the security people?" He hands Bucky a phone, then gives one to Steven who accepts it with wide eyes.

"Never seen them," Bucky says. 

"Thought so." Stark turns towards the back exit. "We need to get the fuck out."

"Fast." Steven nods to Stark, and Bucky has a flash vision of Tony Stark and Steven Grant Proctor working together. It's a frightening thought. 

There's seventy-nine floors down to ground level. Bucky keeps close to Steven who's breathing goes ragged five floors down. Bucky hates it but they cannot pause; time's working against them. They're only a third of the way down the stairwell when they hear Security coming after them. Steven stubbornly runs down one flight of stairs after the other. Bucky is beside him, so he can catch him when he stumbles. If worse comes to worst, Bucky's going to _carry_ Steven out of this fucking mess.

Stark is on the phone, one of the iPhones, while running down the stairs. "Happy, get a car from the shop. I want one without automation. No robo-car, no self-driving gimmicks, no control systems. Just a normal car. – Not even a GPS. Rip the thing out if you have to. – Yes, god dammit, a fully _un-automated_ vehicle. – Six people. We're six people. – Yes, of course that's a huge car. Get a fucking van. – No, I don't care if it's been to the car wash. Just wait at the service entrance. ETA in seven minutes."

Seven minutes is an ambitious estimate. Steven is white as a sheet, he's wheezing. But it is Bruce who first stumbles on the stairs; only Tasha's quick reflexes save him from a disastrous fall. At the 33rd floor landing Bucky takes Steven on his back. Steven tries to resist, but he's too exhausted to put up much of a fight. "Don't be stupid," Bucky tells him, and, "I'm a fucking super soldier." That settles it. Now Bucky's racing down the stairs after Tasha, with Tony and Bruce close behind and Clint their rear guard. 

Steven weighs practically nothing; he clings to Bucky's back. Bucky can feel him stifle a coughing fit. Cold rage pierces him: it will be a bloodbath once he gets his hands on whoever is responsible for this. He turns a corner when machine-gun fire explodes all around them; bullets are ricocheting from the walls and iron railings. It's like they're in a cement trench, shots echoing from all side. Bucky's crouched down, he's holding the Shield above Steven, Bruce and him. Tasha has Stark covered one flight below. The danger is greatest for Clint who's pressed against the wall. He's nocking an arrow, aims the bow at something way above them in the stairwell. Bucky takes the SIG out of his belt – he's not letting those assholes get near Steven. A spray of bullets hits the shield; they drop to the floor in a series of harmless plonks. Bastards! 

Just then Clint turns around. He's signing, "Random gunfire. They're still way up."

The stairwell is echoing with the sound of the shots. But the assholes have stopped shooting. Bucky can hear them trampling down the stairs but Clint is right: there's at least twenty floors between them. Steven tightens his arms around Bucky's neck, he says quietly, "Keep going. We need to get out."

His voice steadies Bucky, like it always does. He puts away the SIG. And moves his head to the side a bit, so his cheek brushes Steven's. Steven chuckles and brushes him right back. It's such a quick tender caress. Bucky wants to turn his head even more, reach for Steven's mouth and kiss him. But Clint is coming down towards them, with a grin, and rolling his eyes. He mutters, "Get a room, you two," and passes them to help Bruce up and _keep going_.

Steven blushes so hard Bucky can feel the heat streaming of him. Now it's Bucky's turn to chuckle while he tightens his hold on the Shield. 

"You're such a prick," Steven whispers and presses his bony knees into Bucky's sides. Which fucking hurts but gets Bucky going. He takes three stairs at once, racing down.

They exit the Tower, running. Security's caught up, they are not more than three floors behind. The guards at the service entrance are standing outside of their box, weapons at the ready. Bucky knows all four of them: Sandoz, Miller, McRiley, Abbott. Stark quickly talks to them, and they move towards the stairwell. The welcome committee for the unknown security personnel controlled by JARV– no, shit, controlled by an AI gone rogue. Bucky can only hope there won't be casualties.

Happy is waiting for them in a battered transporter the color of mud. They stumble inside. Stark yells, "Step on it!"

"Got it, boss," says Happy. 

The van lurches forward while Clint is still closing its sliding side door. Already they're racing down E 40th Street at night.

Steven is tucked against Bucky's side. They're sitting in the very back, on the emergency seating. Bucky has his arm, his flesh arm, around Steven's shoulders. He cannot help it. This is his little guy, and those assholes were trying to shoot him. Steven got some of his color back, he's breathing sounds a bit wheezy but otherwise okay.

"Where to?" Stark asks while handing the last of his iPhones to Tasha, who's squished in between Clint and Bruce on the back seat. "Any safe-houses from the Russki squad, Tash? Mine are all no-go until we figured out who's hacked JARVIS." 

Tasha shakes her head, both to the offered phone and to the question. "I have my own phone." She gives Stark a pointed look, and he mutters, "Right, right, something about spies not trusting proprietary tech." He doesn't sound impressed.

Tasha checks something on her girly pink phone. "None of my contacts has a place where we could hide," she says with a shrug. 

Steven straightens besides Bucky. No, no, he–

"My studio," Steven says before Bucky can stop him. "We could go there."

★

"Get another phone, babe. Anything but a Stark phone. And find another secure line." Stark is on the phone with Pepper in Europe. "I can't believe the fucking AI called you. Don't listen to it; it's not JARVIS. Get another phone. Don't they have something called a Fairphone over there? Get one of those. Doesn't matter that it's shit. You need a phone that's not hacked by whoever got into JARVIS."

Happy parks the van in the courtyard of Steven's studio. The last thing Bucky wants is to draw Steven into this mess. He's protested all the way to Brooklyn, loud, making his points with lots of cursing. Nobody ever listens to him. Clint's building in Bed-Stu is monitored by JARVIS. Clint's heard of this for the first time today and he's said not a word when Stark told him. But Bucky knows Clint is either going to move, or force Stark to personally rip out the AI in every fucking room of his building, basement to rooftop and back. 

Stark, predictably, loves the idea of seeing how _young aspiring artists_ live today. 

Steven is no help, either. For Bucky's tastes, he's just a tad too eager to bring the Avengers straight into his life.

"You said it's unlikely the AI has my studio bugged," he says to Bucky as he shoves open the door of entrance B.

"Correct," Bucky admits. "But perhaps James did."

Steven stops mid-step, and so does Bucky. Stark and Bruce smash full force into his back. Only Tasha has enough presence of mind to hold back herself and Clint. The Winter Soldier is smugly proud of her excellent Red Room training. Bucky is tempted to roll his eyes.

"He what?" Steven is standing on the third step, they're the same height, facing each other.

"I'm not saying he did," Bucky says. "But if I were him, I would have your studio monitored." Behind him, Stark is still on the phone with Ms. Potts. Bucky sighs. Steven is not going to like this. "In case of an asthma attack?"

Steven glares at Bucky; he raises his chin. For a moment there's only Pepper's voice far away on the other side of the Atlantic, unintelligible even for super soldier ears. Steven turns without another word and walks up the stairs. 

"Babe, one sec." Stark takes the phone away from his ear. "I don't think James has this place bugged. And I would know, wouldn't I?"

Bucky shrugs. He has no idea. 

"If Tony doesn't know –" Bruce says.

"I don't." Stark pushes a button on his iPhone. "I'm back. Yes, James attacked me. But it wasn't James. It was this doppelganger guy from another dimension. Calls himself Bucky. No, I'm not making this up. Do you think I would make up such a ridiculous name? I can't believe the fucking hacker showed you the footage. Get another phone, Pepper, please. I'm okay, I'm all right, it's not..."

"If Tony doesn't know," Bruce says again, "then odds are JARVIS doesn't know, either. Perhaps James had his own private monitoring systems set up. Or he just didn't think it necessary to monitor Steven."

Bucky nods and starts walking up the stairs. "It doesn't matter. We are already here. And if Stark keeps talking to Ms. Potts for much longer, whoever has JARVIS hacked can trace us through her phone, no matter what James did or didn't do."

"Right." Clint takes the phone out of Stark's hand, and it shuts Stark up for one. He's watching silently as Clint smashes the phone against the wall. It breaks into a thousand pieces. Clint expertly picks out the chip and crushes it under his boot.

Stark takes a deep breath. "You people know I'm a genius, right? I built, from scrap metal, a miniature arc reactor in a fucking cave in Afghanistan." He pulls out another phone from the back pocket of his jeans. "I have anti-tracking software on these. State of the art. These phones are untraceable. Not even the Pentagon knows this software exists." 

"Software installed by JARVIS," Bruce says matter-of-factly. He's already at the next landing, walking beside Bucky.

"It was more than a year ago. If JARVIS was already hacked back then, we're fucked."

They walk up the stairs until they reach the fifth floor. Steven is waiting before his studio. Bucky tries a tentative smile, and Steven rolls his eyes but grins. Steve, his little Stevie, could hold a grudge for weeks. But even he knew when something was more important than his wounded pride. Bucky stands beside him just as the door of studio 5-18 opens. Robert Asshole Guy steps out, right in front of Tony Stark. 

Bucky can tell the exact moment when Robert realizes who the visitor is. "Er, uh," he goes and for a moment it looks as if he wants to hold out his arm and shake hands with Iron Man. Then he sees Bucky and flinches hard. Tasha gives him her best Widow's grin. Robert takes a careful step back into his studio. Bucky cannot tell whether Stark even noticed him. Stark is way too absorbed in the layout of the floor, talks about putting skylights in the ceiling and follows Steven eagerly into his tiny tube of a studio.

Stark can't seem to stop talking about what all could be improved. There's a quip or commentary about everything, from the material of the shelves to the red alarm clock up in the stowage space. Stark has an architect's eye, Bucky has to give him that. But his social skills are even less existent here than in Bucky's own dimension. Steven tries to get a word in but it's no use. And Bucky get's it: Stark's just lost JARVIS. Having to leave the Tower must feel like he's been evicted from his sanctuary. At the tail end of a murder attack, too. But it doesn't give him the right to rip apart the world Steven built for himself.

He's about to step in when Bruce puts a hand on Stark's shoulder.

"Tony," he says. Nothing more.

And it does the trick. Stark shuts the fuck up. He walks up to a few paintings leaning against the wall, doesn't touch them, just carefully looks at them, then turns to Steven. "These are good. Very good." He can't stop with the judging but he's not lying for politeness' sake. His assessment of Steven's art is heartfelt.

Bucky positions himself at the window. Down in the dark courtyard Happy's waiting in the van. Bucky rubs his right wrist with metal fingers; it's itchy with healing. He's hungry. And hot. The window is old and shoddily insulated. The cool draft coming through the cracks soothes him. Opposite of him, Stark leans against the shelves, arms crossed. He's clearly chosen a position that puts him as far away from Bucky as possible. The marks around Stark's neck are vivid in the neon light. Something about them bothers Bucky, but he cannot say what.

"What did I do?" he asks into the rustling silence.

" _You_ didn't do anything," Steven says. He's standing close to Bucky, like yesterday when Management arrived. His presence quiets Bucky, but Steven knows nothing about the Winter Soldier. He has no idea that he's standing beside a professional killer.

"You attacked Tony," Tasha says. She sits upright on a chair, moving one hand inward, her subtle tell. "You tried to strangle him with the garrote, and when Tony got out of it, you used the metal arm."

Bucky has no memory of this at all. He's got the flashes of Stark at the workbench, of the city at night. His own voice, asking _Is Stark in his lab?_ But if these are the Winter Soldier's memories, they feel detached, like something Bucky's seen in a movie. And he has no memory of an attack. Which means someone took over. Bucky's corrupted. Not by a shut-down code like _Sputnik_ but by something else. Could be drugs. The taste of roast beef is still in his mouth. But it could be older, deeper, a sleeper code Hydra put into him. Bucky presses closer to the glass pane. His metal fingers are clutching the wooden windowsill. There are splinters on his metal fingertips. 

"I agree with Steven here," Clint says. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor below the easel. "It wasn't you, Bucky. You were not yourself. Different walk, face like a mask. I've seen James like this before. You were caught in a flashback of the... war." There's a slight hesitation before _war_. Bucky appreciates that they are keeping the Winter Soldier a secret, because of Steven. For James' sake.

"It wasn't a PTSD episode. And Steven is right." Stark steps away from the shelves, he nods towards Steven. "You only saw the video footage, no audio. Barnes here was contr–"

All their phones go off at the same time. It's a shrieking banjo riff, top volume. Stark jumps like a rabbit on the run, he loses his phone and catches it mid-air. It would be hilarious, if the screeching wasn't so awful. Bucky wants to rip his ears off. The Winter Soldier reaches for Steven, protecting him in case of an attack. Clint pulls his phone out and throws it to the side. With a heavy clunk, it lands in the kitchen sink. If their phones were on fire, this would be a great way to minimize damage. But it's not as simple. Bruce' face has a green tinge; his eyes are closed; he's clearly trying to get a grip on the Other Guy.

Tasha is calmness herself. She takes the iPhone from Bruce's cramped hand. "It seems you all got a message. Looks like..." she pushes a button, "looks like a video."

What the – no! But of course it's the footage of Bucky's attack on Stark. Loud rock music is blaring from the phones' speakers now, the kind of music Stark loves to listen to when he's in inventor mode. Bucky turns the phone horizontally. This is him, walking down the stairs to the lab. These are his fingers, typing in the access code.

"Don't," Steven says. He tries to take the phone out of Bucky's hand. "You don't have to watch this."

It's a kindness, but Steven's wrong: Bucky needs to see. Steven's efforts are no match for the metal arm. Bucky registers that the others all got up, they stand close, watching the video. It shows Stark with the metal disk before him. JARVIS is issuing a command Bucky doesn't understand; the words are drowned in the music. But he knows this voice, he knows... 

The hologram of the metal disk disintegrates the very moment Bucky slings the garrote around Stark's neck. Bucky feels his heart beat slow down, his breathing is going flat. There's a noise like metal, footsteps, someone yells, "Don't!" A tiny figure comes out of nowhere, blond, blue overalls, the Shield strapped to his arm. 

"Fuck," Bucky gasps. Steven in the video smashes the Shield into the Soldier's back. He stumbles forward, grunts in pain.

Steven, the real Steven beside him, winces. But his attack gave Stark enough time to loosen the garrote and hack his screwdriver into the Soldier's arm.

"We are not safe here." Clint's watching the vid over Bruce's shoulder, one hand steady on Bruce's back. Bruce's face looks normal again, human, paler than usual. But not green. "Who could have accessed the Tower footage?" he says.

In the video, Bucky has Stark by the neck; his metal hand squeezes mercilessly. It's different than the video Hydra made him record in his dimension: Here the footage is in color. His hair is markedly shorter. He's not wearing the Winter Soldier's gear. And yet, this is him, his face, his body, his hand, strangling another Stark.

"Whoever hacked JARVIS must have us tracked," Bruce says.

Bruce is right. Bucky feels himself go cool and analytical. It's this skill – to stay calm and not lose his shit in sudden deadly danger – that makes him an excellent sniper, one of the best. He assesses the possibilities: phones? Nope, he trusts Stark's software. The van? Unlikely, Stark specifically asked for a vehicle without GPS. Nobody followed them. Happy, Clint, Tasha, Bucky himself – they're all experts at spotting any shadows. Happy? Steven? Bucky trusts them with his life. Which leaves –

"The chip," Bucky groans. "The tredec-core chip." He clutches the metal arm with his right hand, out of pure instinct. He can control its movements with a thought. But he can do nothing against any signals the new chip may be sending. His fucking arm – greatest strength, greatest weakness. Bucky's corrupted. He'd give a lot if he could rip off the goddamn thing and dispose of it in the kitchen sink. 

Instead, Stark is here, right in his face. Steven quickly steps between them. His body is small and warm, and he's shaking. The Winter Soldier wants to push him out of danger. Bucky would love to hide behind him.

"You cannot hurt him." Steven's chin is up, his face red.

"I won't. Jesus! But we need to destroy the chip." Stark reaches for Bucky's left wrist but Steven won't let him touch it. "Barnes is right," Starks says, exasperated now. "The chip must be how the intruder tracked us here."

"It's too late," Steven says. He has his fingers wrapped around Stark's screwdriver. "Whoever is doing this, they're already here. We need to figure out what they want."

Stark is staring at Steven, for once out of words. Bucky has another horrifying vision of these two working together, billionaire genius inventor and dirt-poor artist tactician and strategist.

"Steven," he says because he wants that fucking chip out of his arm, no matter what. "Let him –"

"No, no, Barnes, he's right." Stark moves back a bit, he wrenches the screwdriver from Steven's hold. "We don't have the time. Where's my backpack?"

He left the backpack over at the shelves, and Bucky jerks his chin towards it when –

"Shit," Bruce says, and Stark whips around. Bruce, Clint and Tasha are staring at Bruce's phone.

"What?" 

Bucky looks down at his own phone. The footage from the lab has stopped. Instead a black screen appeared, with old-fashioned green numbers scrolling over it. 

The speakers of their phones crackle. Not Tasha's, Bucky registers in the back of his mind. Uncorrupted, comes from the Winter Soldier, and Bucky makes quick eye-contact with the Widow. She gives him a short nod and turns back to the phone in Bruce's hand.

"What a pleasure, the Avengers. Assembled in one location, without a defense system in place," a voice says. "It's a pity your fake god is not here, and what a feat this would have been. But at least I finally have all of your attention. What the world could look like if you had not thwarted Hydra's every plan..." 

The voice sounds like JARVIS but it's not JARVIS. The accent is different. And never in a thousand years would JARVIS spout such bullshit. Clint utters a heart-felt, "What the fuck!" Bucky wants to rolls his eyes along with Clint, but he can't.

The computer voice drones on. "But it's not too late for the Insight algorithm to gather… insight. The world is ready for a new world order. My algorithm shall discover anyone with leanings towards megalomania, towards chaos. And for once, we shall be a step ahead of terrorist groups such as yours. The Tower is even better weaponized than the helicarriers. It's all in place. I have waited a very, very long time for this. Gentlemen, _mein Fräulein_ , it's time for last words."

"God, another villain speech." Stark's at his backpack, he's taking out whatever it is that he took from U. "Here's _my_ famous last words: who the fuck is this guy?"

Well, it is not JARVIS, that much is clear. On the black screen a face emerges, large forehead, glasses, squished mouth. The computerized image of a small, mouse-like man. The German is a dead giveaway. 

"It's Zola," Bucky whispers. He's trembling; there's nothing he can do against it. The cold draft from the window creeps inside of him, dread like ice pushing through. He almost drops the phone but the metal hand holds on to it. 

"Bucky?" A small hand touches his cheek. It's Steve, Steven. "Breathe," he says softly. "It's going to be all right."

He's wrong, but his voice calms Bucky. Brings him back to the here and now. Bucky wants to go home. He wants Steve to be here, his Steve, wants him badly.

Tasha is reading from her phone. "Arnim Zola was a German scientist with Hydra during World War II. He got recruited by the CIA for Operation Paperclip." She looks up. "My intel says he died of cancer in the 1970s."

The speakers crackle again. "First correction, _Fräulein_. I am Swiss. Second, look at this..." A dimly lit hall appears on the phones' screens, with banks and banks of old-fashioned clunky computer servers. "Science could not save my body. My mind, however, was worth saving. I have never been more alive." 

"Swiss?" Stark whispers. He takes out his own phone, types in something fast. "Wait, this signal is coming from…" He stares at the phone's screen. "Wheaton, New Jersey. Same place as the fucking weapons' shipment." 

Bruce looks up. "What? What weapons' shipment?"

Stark waves his phone around. "Someone had placed an order for a weapon system called the Jericho VII. There is no Jericho VII, never was, never will be. But the books said it was shipped and paid for. Delivered to this destination in New Jersey. Exactly here." He taps with a finger on the screen. "And then the buyer, whoever the fuck he was, sent six pounds of handmade organic Emmental cheese as a courtesy gift to Pepper. Who has no idea what is going on. And doesn't _do_ cow milk." Stark rolls his eyes in a way that reminds Bucky of Josip. "I went down to Wheaton, checked the place out. There's nothing but an old military base."

"Hell," Bucky whispers. _Old military base?_ The Avengers don't know about Camp Lehigh, they don't know about the secret bunker where Pierce hid his pet AI. "You were at Camp Lehigh? When?"

Stark nods. "Back in November. I went the same day Pepper got the fucking cheese delivered. There's nothing there. Just an old, fenced-in military base. No personnel. It's been long abandoned."

"There is something."

"Bucky?" Bruce says, and Bucky looks up from where he's been trying to hide behind Steven. Clint, Tasha, Bruce – they are staring at him, even Steven turns around and studies his face.

Bucky takes a deep breath. He can do this. Zola is dead and he survived. He's not going to let an outdated Nazi computer change this. "After the war, Camp Lehigh was the secret SSR headquarters. Later those Zola data servers were stored there. By Hydra, by Pierce."

"Sergeant Barnes is quite right," the voice cuts in and Bucky hates that Zola knows his name, hates that something of him has been touched by Zola. Of all the horrors in his nightmares – the factory, the fire, the train, the fall, the batshit crazy Red Skull – Zola's soft, almost caring voice haunts him the most. 

"For seventy years, Hydra grew within SHIELD, a beautiful parasite. Just as I have been growing within your AI since SHIELD was dismantled. Your... JARVIS has been very accommodating." 

A bit too accommodating, Bucky thinks. Those computer glitches start making a twisted kind of sense. Not just picking up owner's intent but going too far. Overshooting the mark when it's impossible not to shoot. If Zola has taken over the Tower's AI – where is JARVIS?

"Barnes!" Stark doesn't call himself a genius for nothing. He's already back to rummaging around in his backpack. "What happened to this thing in your world?" He waves at Bruce and brings out U's motherboard.

"The Zola computer was destroyed by Hydra." Pierce's voice in his head, _Two targets, Level Six. They already cost me Zola._ Bucky nods towards Tasha. "You and Steve discovered it, you were standing in its brain. Pierce gave the order to take you out."

"Take us out? How?" Tasha is thinking much faster than Bucky can right now. 

_Shit!_ "Missile strike," he says. 

The phone starts vibrating in his hand half a second before a sound goes off that is not the banjo. It's the air raid alarm from World War II, from the Tower. His entire left arm vibrates with it. The ominous wailing comes from all their iPhones. Clint's is rattling loudly in the sink.

"Tony, we got a bogey." Tasha holds up her own, silent phone. "Short range ballistic. 30 seconds tops."

"Who fired it?" Stark has U's motherboard from the backpack in front of him. Bruce is standing by his side.

"The Tower."

Zola's laughter is tinny and cold, there's nothing human or, God forbid, British about it. "I'm afraid I have been stalling. Now you have run out of time." 

And the screen of Bucky's phone goes black.

★

Steven's lips are full, pliant, they taste of sage tea and paint. His tongue softly coaxes open Bucky's mouth. There's only shadow and warmth between them – the rustling of Steven's shirt, almost inaudible, the whir of Bucky's arm. The light behind Steven is brighter than the morning sun, his hair glitters like spun gold. Bucky borrows deeper into the kiss and yes, this is how he wants to go. The moment is still and out of time – they're young, kids almost, and the kiss is tentative and awkward. They're soldiers, and the kiss is unplanned, sloppy, emotions running wild after a hand-job between friends. They're lovers, and it's an everyday kiss turned into something he has no words for, just the wide blue sky and they're a willow tree, a branch, a splinter of wood bursting with life.

He opens his mouth, takes in Steven's breath. He remembers praying, during his worst moments in Hydra's hands, _please, God, let me see Steve one more time_. And then he'd die. Ready to go. Always was, even back as a young man in the war. He always knew he wouldn't come back, knew it with a certainty that had nothing to with forethought or statistics. He didn't care, as long as he could be with Steve – even for a little while. Steve, Steven is right here with him. And Bucky's ready.

"Knew it." A female voice.

"Jump, I say. Land on your left arm, I say. And they start smooching." Clint, this is Clint.

"It was high time," Nat says. "Take your bow away, I'm not flying down with you." Tasha, her name is Tasha in this world.

Somewhere in the back Bruce and Stark are giving each other a high five. Outside someone is loudly honking his horn.

Nothing makes much sense, but Steven is here with him. His little guy. And perhaps this is why Bucky's been thrown into this world: He will not be killed by fucking Nazis, and he will make sure they won't get Steve, either. 

"Bucky." Steven's lips move against his. They're soft and warm like sun-drenched leaves.

"Tell 'im," Bucky whispers, "you gotta tell 'im. He won't, so you hafta, Stevie."

He opens his eyes. He's up, outside the open window, standing on a ledge, with Steven at his side. Bucky has his right arm wrapped around Steven's waist; the metal hand holds on tight to the windowsill. Steven has both palms on Bucky's cheeks.

"I will tell him," he says, very quietly. "But my name is not fucking Stevie." He pulls hard at a strand of Bucky's hair. But he smiles and squints a little, looking beautiful and nothing like Steve at all. 

Bucky takes a deep breath and glances back inside the studio. Hannah is standing at the easel, arms crossed before her chest, a wide grin on her face. She must have come in unnoticed, when they were all shouting and scrambling to get away from –

"What... what happened to the bogey?"

Tasha shrugs and waves at Stark and Bruce who are still congratulating themselves on – what exactly? On the floor beside Stark's backpack lies the motherboard. A row of diodes is flashing green.

A clear voice comes from the phone Bucky left lying on the floor. It comes from all their phones.

"Sir," JARVIS says, and he sounds British and polite, just like he's supposed to, "permission to destroy the Zola data banks in the historic SSR headquarters? Camp Lehigh has been abandoned. Zero heat signature, zero waves, I cannot even detect radio. There are no signs of life within the entire base."

And, "Yes," yells Stark. "Affirmative!"

★


	7. Chapter 7

★

Bucky sits on the swivel chair back in the lab, and Stark is preparing everything for the removal of the tredec-core chip. Well, Stark is waiting, screwdriver in hand, for DUM-E to find Bucky's old chip that somehow landed in a plastic bin full of discarded scrap. Bucky should probably call Stark _Tony_ now. Back in the studio, he actually shook Bucky's hand, which must be a first. But Bucky can't. It's going to be bad enough, going home. He will miss these guys. 

Steven stands close to his right side, hand lightly on his shoulder. Bucky keeps looking at him, taking him in – the small folds of Steven's ear, the way he unconsciously moves his weight from one foot to the other, making up for the scoliosis. The way his fingertips slowly stroke the skin right above the collar of Bucky's shirt. Bucky's committing everything to memory because he doesn't want to forget. He's lost these things once, and seventy years is such a long time. This is his last chance to take a bit of Stevie back to his own world. To Steve. 

"Sergeant Barnes, if I may explain one more time?" says JARVIS. Since he's fully back, he's adopted an apologetic, overly regretful tone. They all hate it. Stark has already told him to cut it out but JARVIS keeps falling back into it, as if it's his new default.

"Go ahead," Bucky says resigned while Stark rolls his eyes.

"Thank you, Sergeant." 

Two holograms appear in the air. They show electric circuits blown up so much Bucky only realizes on second glance it's his left arm – twice. More specifically, it's the area where the metal humerus sits underneath the metal shoulder. It's where the chip has been mounted, the old one and the new one they are about to replace. The hologram chip is huge; it is embedded in a network of circuitry. One hologram is made up of blue lines, with the chip highlighted in red. The other has the same red chip but the circuitry is green. Or rather, Bucky thinks as he takes a closer look, it's blue _and_ green together, as if someone used a green marker and re-drew the original blue lines.

Steven gasps. "Is this… _you?_ "

Bucky belated realizes Steven's never seen the whole extent of the metal arm. "It's all right, Steven. It's a high-class prosthesis. I've had it for many years. James, too." He turns to check with Stark, but Stark is busy with an assortment of chips DUM-E dropped onto the workbench.

"Sergeant Barnes is correct, Mr. Proctor. These are holographic models of his prosthesis. The one showing the Zola infiltration" – the hologram with the green circuitry gets brighter – "was taken last night when the Winter Soldier entered the lab shortly after 11 pm. The other one shows the arm as it is now. As you can see, Sergeant Barnes, all traces of the infiltration are gone. I cannot determine with a hundred per cent certainty the code word the Zola-AI used to trigger the Winter Soldier programing. But _prime cut_ seems to be the most likely option. No drugs were triggered by the chip. In fact, there are no drugs hidden anywhere in the arm. The only chemical in it is a harmless disinfectant for the prosthesis' self-cleaning function. There is no danger –"

"Look, JARVIS," Bucky says. He doesn't like to interrupt but they've gone through this a hundred times. "I understand what happened. I know Zola is gone. I'll work with my therapist on undoing the Hydra sleeper code." _Fucking bastards!_ "I know and believe that you are back to normal. But I don't want the thing in me. I want it out. The old one was working just fine."

"I have to disagree, Sergeant Barnes. The old chip is highly inferior. Brain-arm interfacing is notably slower than with the tredec-core chip. By my conservative estimate, there's a 0.0427 second delay, which makes for an enormous difference in speed and coordination. You are doing yourself a disservice by removing the chip."

"Sorry, pal, I want it out," Bucky says. "Once the Stark in my world is ready to invent those chips – maybe. But I am not going back home with something in me that Zola touched."

"As you wish." JARVIS sounds polite enough. But there's a slightly miffed feeling in the air.

Bucky has to bite back a chuckle. "Stark, what about my chip?" 

Stark shakes his head; he keeps sorting through the heap of chips. Bucky has no idea how he will find the one Bucky wants.

Steven stares at the holograms. "You control this prosthesis with your thoughts?" He turns back to Bucky, and his hand on Bucky's shoulder grows heavier. "James does, too?"

Bucky nods. He's told Steven more about James than he ever wanted to. More than he should have. Steven knows now about the Winter Soldier. Not the gory details but he's got the general idea of James having been on Interpol's most wanted list for decades. Speaking of decades, Steven knows now about James' age. He quickly figured out that _James Barnes_ of the infamous Howling Commandoes is not James' namesake but the actual same person. But Bucky be damned if Steven is going to hear about the arm from –

"How did you lose your arm, Bucky?"

"Found it!" Stark holds a tiny glittering chip between forefinger and thumb. Bucky sees no difference between this chip and all the other ones on the workbench. Which is something that will change. As much as he hates to think about the tech running his arm, once he's back home, he will ask Stark to teach him _everything_ about it. He's not letting some AI control him into killing his friends again.

Stark opens the wrist compartment and quickly replaces the chip. Still not wearing surgical gloves, still no consideration for the fact that this is Bucky's body, or as good as. But at least Stark is keeping his mouth shut. They are all very quiet. Tasha and Clint are on the other side of the workbench, where the D-beamer sits. There's hot coffee and organic donuts but Bucky doesn't want breakfast until he's back home. Bruce is in the corner with the robots. He and Stark already spent an hour getting U online again, an hour they could have spent on sending Bucky home. But apparently, documentation is of vital importance when running an experimental lab, and it's U who does the recording.

The wrist compartment snaps shut and Stark sits there, his precious tredec-core chip in the palm of his hand. Bucky moves his arm up and down, and yes, now that he knows how different it can feel, he notices the difference. When he raises both arms at the same time, it's two distinct movements, with a minute lag of the metal arm. But it's worth it to have even the ghost of Zola be gone.

He turns to Steven, and Steven takes his hand because this is good-bye. Stark repaired the D-beamer a while ago, _nothing vital broken_ , and the weird metal disk is Bucky's way home.

Bucky stands up, but he does not let go of Steven's hand. "Can I come back?" he asks, and it's a stupid question, a question that will haunt him, but he has to know. "Can… you guys visit?" Steven's grip is so tight Bucky's fingers are getting crushed.

Stark puts the chip down on the workbench where it is mixed in among all the others. "I honestly don't know," he says. "This D-beamer is a prototype." He picks up another chip. It's a bit larger and square; the Stark logo is printed on its blue surface.

Clint says, "Let's get you safely home first, and bring James back. We don't even know whether this thing will work."

"Oh, it will work," Stark mutters but he nods. Bruce joins them at the workbench, and he hands a tiny SIM card to Stark. At least, it looks like a SIM card to Bucky. Stark and Bruce exchange a long _look_ , and hell, Bucky has no idea what's going on.

"Is there a danger that Bucky will be hurt?" asks Steven. "Or that James won't come back, and they are both gone?"

He is asking the right questions. He's also glancing back and forth between Bruce and Stark, and when Bucky checks, he can see Tasha and Clint have no idea what's going on, either.

"Stark?" Clint starts just when Stark turns to Bucky and wordlessly hands him the SIM card and the square blue chip.

"Er," Bucky says. The metal things feel cold in his sweaty palm.

"Take these with you, for your Anthony Stark. He'll know what to do with them," Bruce says. He sounds resigned and a bit hesitant. Stark still keeps his mouth shut. And suddenly Bucky understands: Bruce and Stark have been fighting about this – whether it is wise to introduce tech from one universe to another. 

"There is no danger of Bucky here getting hurt," Stark finally says. "And – JARVIS, what's the probability of James not returning the picosecond his oppositional self is back in his universe?"

"Probability is at 0.988 per cent, Sir. There will be no time lag at all, not even a picosecond."

"Good enough, I'd say." Stark grins at them. "Okay, let's get going. Everyone but Barnes step back!" He presses a button on the D-beamer, and a subsonic sound's coming from the disk. It's so low Bucky is sure he's the only one in the lab who can hear it. A cylinder in the center of the disk opens up, like an old-fashioned camera lens. This, Stark already explained, is what Bucky must have touched when he was zapped here.

For a moment, Clint puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder. Tasha gives him a quick, devilish grin. Bruce mouths, _Lunch at the Pershing Square Café_ , and steps back. They've said their good-byes a while ago. Only Steven will not let go of Bucky's hand.

"Shouldn't Mr. Stark test this device before you use it?" he asks.

"This is the test," Stark says roughly. But he keeps fiddling with the device, giving them a moment of privacy.

Steven moves their clasped fingers between them, then he finally lets go but at once puts his hands on Bucky's hips. "See you on the other side, I guess," he says with a wry smile. Bucky has no words. _His little guy._ He's losing him all over again even when he isn't. He pulls Steven towards him and let's himself feel his small body one last time. 

It is Steven who steps back, his fingers slide off Bucky's sides, he's moving away from him, to the other side of the workbench. Bucky puts his hand into the cylinder of the D-beamer, his right hand this time. In his metal fist he holds the SIM card and the chip. He keeps it far away from the device. He won't risk getting zapped again, and Stark said it doesn't make a difference. Any part of him touching the opening will transport him back. Bucky looks up. Steven's eyes are so blue, like the ocean at Coney Island, a lifetime ago. 

There's a sharp pull all the way up his right arm. Steven's face is going blurry. 

Tasha says, " _Three_ knives? Seriously?" 

And Stark's voice, a splintered echo as Bucky is sucked into a tunnel-shaped vortex of grey and white, goes, "Woops! It's me, James, please don't –"

★

_Two hours later_

Steven Grant Rogers is waiting before the door of his Tower apartment. He's pretty sure James won't come out, but he has to try. Ever since Tony told James that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, James holed himself up and has not come down to the Avengers' floor. It's been fourteen hours, an entire night, and Steve can't _stand_ it.

"James," Steve says quietly. He's tempted to knock, but the door's solid metal. And James must know he's here; JARVIS most certainly told him. "James," he says again. "Can you open the door?" He adds a superfluous, "It's Steve."

He feels like an idiot, but what can he do? James reminds him so much of Bucky, in those first months after he'd come to him – silent, frightened, not trusting anyone but Steve.

"JARVIS, does James know I'm here?"

Silence. Behind Steve the elevator is passing by, a quiet sliding sound. "Did James tell you not to monitor his door, JARVIS?"

"My apologies, Captain Rog–"

The door opens hard and fast. It bangs loudly against the wall. 

"Steve!" 

James is wearing a black hoodie, black jeans, black socks, no shoes. In his left hand he holds a scary-looking tome of a book. His hair is short, his grin a mile long, and he grabs Steve and pulls him inside.

"You're back," Steve mumbles against Bucky's lips.

"I'm fucking back." He buries one hand in Steve's hair.

Somehow the door falls shut behind them, and they stand there, kissing hard, teeth, spit and everything. When they come up for air, Steve can taste blood on his tongue. Bucky doesn't let go of the book, either, but drags him along to the back of the apartment. 

"What...?"

Bucky steps into the small bedroom, a guest room, Steve remembers, that they never used. But someone clearly slept here – brought a pillow and blanket from the master bedroom, took some of the clothes they store in the hallway closet. A small pile of books sits on the nightstand, there's a half-empty coffee cup. Beside it lie what looks like a SIM card and a computer chip. Weapons are placed meticulously on an empty shelf: a row of knives, guns and, God, the Soldier's grenade launcher that he always kept in the closet near the entrance door. 

"Is this where James slept?" One of Steve's paintings hangs on the wall, an old one, sharp red star amidst a landscape of black and grey. He has all but forgotten it.

Bucky throws the heavy book onto the nightstand, he wraps the left arm around Steve's waist. "Must have been. I woke up here ten minutes ago. Took me a moment to realize I was back home." He grins and kisses Steve softly on the mouth. Perhaps he got a taste of the blood, because he licks over Steve's lip, mumbles, "Sorry, sweetheart." 

Steve just shakes his head. "Will he be all right?" he asks. He moves his hand up Bucky's back, straightens out the hood. He wanted to hug the man wearing these clothes so often during the last days. But James kept his distance, from Steve even more than from the others. "Isn't this James' hoodie? Why are you wearing it?"

Bucky looks down at himself. "Can't believe it. Fucker's kept my favorite red shirt."

Steve's so relieved to hear him talk – all Bucky, so familiar – he presses himself against Bucky's side. "Probably will do him good, wearing something other than black."

"Hey," Bucky's pulling him even closer, "black's a good color on me."

They kiss a bit more, and the kiss is softer, with the tip of Bucky's tongue moving in and out of Steve's mouth. He can tell where this is going, and it's been ages since they fucked in the Tower. But they have all the time in the world. His team doesn't need to know right away that Bucky's back.

"He will be all right," Bucky says as Steve is pulling him towards the bed and down onto it. "More than all right." He pushes up Steve's shirt and places kisses onto his stomach. 

"He said," and it's a bit hard to get the words out now, when they are lying on a blanket that smells like Bucky, and Steve wants nothing more than feel his weight on him, "he said there's no Captain America where he is from."

Bucky smirks and lies on top of Steve. Heat is pooling between them, jeans on jeans. And Bucky's lightly moving his hips but Steve can tell he also wants to talk.

"True," he says, "they don't have a Captain America. I even went to a museum to look for you." He wiggles in between Steve's thighs. "But there's a small guy named Steven."

"That's what James said. A Steven Grant Proctor, he said." Steve buries his fingers in Bucky's hair, just slowly combs through the soft strands, no pulling, no controlling, because Bucky hates that. 

But Bucky shoves his head into Steve's hands, a gesture of utter trust. It took them years to come this far. Then Bucky looks up with a wicked grin. "Spitting image of you, back in 1939." 

Steve grins back and strokes Bucky's face, the bow of his upper lip, the soft stubble on his chin and cheeks. It's fewer years for him than for Buck – 1939. He still remembers it all too well, being sick all the time, being small. But when he's with Bucky like this, the size of his body doesn't matter. He could be small like this Steven Proctor, small like he was for most of his life. Or big, like he is now. 

"Rebecca..." Steve starts, and Bucky at once pulls away.

"Yeah, what about her?"

Bucky has no memory of his sister, and Rebecca has been dead for almost twenty years. It's a touchy issue between them, Bucky's family. There are kids, grandkids – Steve has their names and addresses, even contacted Rebecca's eldest, George Proctor, to let them know their uncle is alive. But Bucky doesn't want to see them, not yet anyway. 

"She married a David Proctor. Remember Dave? Little dark-haired guy a few streets over from your folks' place?"

Bucky relaxes and lets himself lie comfortably on Steve's chest again. "Now, that's some weird-ass transdimensional coincidence," he mutters.

"I'm not so sure about coincidence." Steve had two days to think about this, ever since James told him about Steven. "James says he never knew anyone going by the name of Rogers. But he also says he remembers almost nothing from before the war." 

And Steve wonders; he's even drawn hypothetical family trees. Maybe the Rogers are the Proctors in this other universe. Or maybe some Proctor married a Rogers after the war, and Steven Grant Proctor is their great-grandchild. In all likelihood, James and Steven's ancestors never met. It pains him, for James' sake, a taciturn and lonely man who would have needed a friend. But deep inside him it feels right that there was another Steve like him, living his or her life, however short and insignificant, in this other world.

Bucky tips him on the forehead with a metal finger. "I can hear some heavy wheels turning inside there, Rogers. Care to share?"

Steve shakes his head. "Nah." Not now. He wraps his legs around Bucky's waist, grabs him by the arms and flips them around. 

Bucky comes to lie on his back, dark hair spread on the pillow. There's surprise on his face, a cocky smile, and Steve knows they will talk about this later.

Now he shoves up the black hoodie, pulls it over Bucky's head, same with the shirt underneath, black of course. Bucky complies, the smile growing softer, and there's the arm, the scars, the red star. Steve kisses Bucky's chest, he sucks on Bucky's nipples, to hear him moan – deep, eager. Steve's hips move by themselves, he can finally let go, for the first time in days. Bucky's come back to him. 

"Sweetheart," Bucky whispers, pushing up against Steve, and Steve can feel his hot arousal.

He licks a path down south while he snaps open the button of Bucky's jeans. The zipper opens willingly, which is a good thing because Bucky's already well on his way to being thick and hard. Steve kisses Bucky's cock through the white underwear, and Bucky groans loudly, hips jerking up. The underwear has a spot that's sopping wet, and this is Bucky, who's never been a leaker. 

Steve has to grin. It's a rare gift to have Bucky so helplessly aroused. He pushes jeans and underwear out of the way and goes down on Bucky for good. Outside the city is busy and bright, a Saturday in April in Manhattan. The sun fills the room like a golden wave, breaking on the windowsill as if it were a beach on Coney Island. It covers them in a spray of shadow and light. They move together, up and down, in and out, and Bucky's hot cock fills Steve's mouth, and his body is warm and so alive. When Bucky cries out and comes, there are tears in his eyes. He pulls Steve up, with the strength of the metal arm that Steve cannot match and doesn't want to. Bucky kisses Steve on the mouth. And for all that they are fucking mid-morning, on a stranger's bed, it's such a sweet, such a gentle kiss.

Later Bucky says, snuggled against Steve's chest, "Back home I'll do you, smothered in whitefish spread."

Whatever. Steve kisses Bucky's temple. He certainly doesn't mind. He loves whitefish spread.

Bucky says, "D'you have any plans for today?"

"Other than not letting you out of my sights?" He knocks Bucky softly in the shoulder, the immovable left. "No."

Bucky smiles, the quiet smile that holds an echo of his broad, brilliant smile from before the war. Steve loves it more than he can say. "I'd like to show you something," Bucky says, "in Gowanus."

Gowanus? _He can't be serious._ Steve shakes his head, but of course he will go. He will go anywhere with Bucky at his side.

★

_Two days later_

Steven Grant Proctor is so mad. He's shaking all over, that's how mad he is. He wants to scream. Usually he doesn't let his rage get to him like this. But now he stomps up the length of his studio, throws the backpack down on the chair. He wants to hit something. Or hit someone – just let Robert come over and complain about the noise. 

_Scoliosis, arrhythmia, asthma, rheumatic fever, astigmatism, high blood pressure, hard of hearing_ , hard of anything, and fucking _colorblindness_. James recited a whole litany of ailments, and Steven's so sick of it. Yes, his body is not perfect, never was, never will be. But he's learned to live with it, it's all right (mostly), and he is – More. Than. His. Illnesses. He can work not all but many jobs. He's an artist, not a bad one, either. He's doing some good in the world, as much as he can. He doesn't need people taking care of him. _He_ is good at taking care of people. And he can see colors just fine. Man.

Steven grabs one of the brushes, he opens a tube of paint. Bright, fire-brigade red. He squeezes a dab onto his palette; he takes it up with the brush and draws rough strokes onto the canvas.

He can't believe James is only back two days, and they are having the biggest fight they ever had. 

Steven changes the brush, paints a landscape in black and dark grey. Robert's not coming over, so he's going to have this out with the canvas.

James looked so defeated when Steven left him sitting at Starbucks. And Steven was so enraged he didn't even let James pay the bill. Usually, they have an _arrangement_ : James pays for Steven's asthma treatments and he picks up the check whenever they eat out. Steven accepts it because James told him, convincingly, and Bucky confirmed it, that he has more money than he will ever be able to spend. He wants to spend it on Steven, because they're friends. And every once in a while, Steven invites James to his studio, and cooks for him. Pasta, sandwiches. His famous orange and pumpkin soup. But it's not a quid pro quo. They're friends. Steven knows how much it means to James. This, _this_ is how Steven takes care of James.

He should call him. At least send a text. James will never make the first step, not after the kind of row they had. At fucking Starbucks, of all places.

He puts away the brush and rummages around in his backpack, looking for his phone. It's not there. He empties out everything. His work clothes from the Tower need to go into the wash anyway. There are his notebooks, his color pencils (a gift from James), his wallet, the inhaler. Tylenol. _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ , which he took from Dad's bookshelves yesterday, trying to find out more about James, who was born back in 1917. Unbelievable.

The expensive iPhone Mr. Stark gave him is not there. Shit, he must have left it at the Tower.

There's a knock at the door. Steven rolls his eyes. _Now_ Robert comes to complain?

"I'm not in the mood," Steven yells. He opens his laptop. At least he can send James a quick mail.

Another knock at the door, a bit more forceful this time. It occurs to Steven that Robert would never knock. He's not the polite type. James, though, would never come into the studio without being explicitly invited in.

"Just come in!" Steven runs along the studio back towards the door. "It's open."

The door panel swings inward just when Steven reaches it. Someone has opened the door but doesn't enter. A hand reaches through the gap, clad with a black fingerless glove. The metal fingers hold Steven's new phone.

"You forgot your phone," James mutters softly outside.

Steven throws open the door, "James", and pulls him inside. He must have left the phone on the table at Starbucks. That's how upset he was.

They stand facing each other in the dim light. Steven pushes the door shut, and James at once steps back against the wall. He's pulled his cap down into his face, and his shoulders look tense. He's wearing Bucky's red henley, but doesn't look like Bucky at all. And – Steven realizes – he doesn't want him to. He's holding on to James' metal hand, not letting go. 

"I don't want to fight with you," Steven says. "I don't like it."

There's relief on James' face. "Me neither."

"Then you have to stop treating me like I'm sick. Because I'm not." Steven sounds defensive even to his own ears, but he needs James to understand. 

"I... I know. I d-didn't mean t-to..." He stutters, and James only ever stuttered during their first awkward conversation, and never since.

"Okay. It's okay." Steven feels his anger drain away. He's still shaking, but it's from having run up the stairs too fast and being upset about their fight. He lets go of James' hand and starts walking towards the window. Usually, James would just follow him, but he's back to being shy and insecure. Steven takes a deep breath, in and out. With an inward sigh he turns around. There's James pressed against the wall, tall and dark, a looming presence. He's leaning slightly forward; head low and shoulders raised – trying to make himself smaller than he is. He's not looking Steven in the eye, which is a bad sign.

"Come on, let's talk," Steven says, and he wants to reassure James, but he's running out of breath. And man, his chest's clamming up, no other way to describe it, and he's having an asthma attack. Fuck! 

Steven goes and sits, he puts the phone on the table. He's trying not to cough, trying to push it down, but it's no use. He's already wheezing, not getting enough air. Shouldn't have walked so fast, shouldn't have stomped up the stairs, shouldn't have, shouldn't have, shouldn't have. And he's eating his own words because he _just_ told James he's not sick, and now he's having an asthma attack. James will be so horribly worried. Steven hates it. But there's nothing he can do. So he lets the cough come, and it's a small thing in his throat, too little air. He goes through the breathing techniques he's taught himself. It's not a bad attack; it's going to be over in a few minutes. He tries to keep his breathing shallow. This will be over soon. 

His inhaler appears on the table. Steven looks up, and James is standing beside him, Steven's backpack in his hand. He looks concerned but – not overly upset. Relax, Steven tells his clammed-up chest. He forces himself to sit upright even when a stone the size of a boulder is squeezing out the air he needs to breathe. Fuck, he can't worry about James right now. 

He reaches for the inhaler, takes off the cap while he's breathing out as much as he can. Then he takes a puff and lets it fill his lungs to the full. He counts down the seconds, ten, nine, eight... and at three he can feel the meds take effect. The boulder that's been sitting on his chest, loosens, everything feels lighter, even when his breath still goes wheezy. He leans back on the chair and realizes James' hand is hovering over his shoulder. 

"May I?" James asks very quietly.

Steven has no idea what James means to do but nods. With every passing second, air is flowing more easily up from his lungs and back into them.

The metal hand touches his left shoulder, and James' other hand lands on his right. Both hands are warm. He starts massaging Steven's back. Usually, Steven hates being touched during an attack. He needs to focus on himself and cannot deal with another person. But. He leans back into James' touch, and it's like _something_ opens in his chest that has nothing to do with the asthma attack. He takes a deep breath and another. James' hands move lower, hard and ghost-like on the left, digging in deep and gently on the right. Steven can feel a cough wanting to rise into his mouth but it recedes. He let's himself fall back fully into James' hands. 

"Do you want a Mountain Dew?" James softly asks.

Steven rasps, "Yeah." He's wheezing and it's hard to speak when he's still getting back his breath. James must have noticed the six-pack of Mountain Dew in the fridge. Steven always has a few cans at hand. Mountain Dew contains an astonishing amount of caffeine, and caffeine helps with an attack. He doesn't want James' hands to leave his back but he needs a moment to... to collect himself. James has never ever touched him casually like this. 

James brings him a Mountain Dew from the fridge. The can is ice-cold and sparkles in the sunlight. James sits down on the other chair, the one where Bucky sat when he was here.

"How d'you know about caffeinated soda?" Steven asks after he's downed half of the stuff. The cold liquid feels great but not nearly as good as James massaging his back. Steven keeps looking at him. He's taken off the cap and keeps pushing back his hair. Something is different about the way he holds himself. And then there's the red shirt. Bucky's red henley which looks even better on James.

"Steve told me," he says. "The – other Steve."

It's the first time he's mentioned the guy from the other dimension. Steven doesn't like to think about _Steve_ – this tall, fit dude who gave up a body much like Steven's own, to join the army and become a soldier. He doesn't like to think about how this Steve is the same age as James. How much life experience they share. When his thoughts go down this path, they inadvertently end with the image of James and some blond hunk together in bed. It's stupid, ridiculously stupid, to be this jealous of someone who's _him_ in another universe. He will never admit this to anyone, least of all to James. But it's there, in his mind.

"How does he even know about Mountain Dew?" Steven sounds surly, and he knows it's his own insecurity coming through.

"He doesn't. He said R C Cola..."

"And a moon pie." Steven groans. He totally knew it: The two centenarians bonded over depression era foods.

But James smiles at him. "You know what a moon pie is?"

"Of course I know, everybody does. [There's even a song about it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=loamVbAOsPo)." The words are barely out of his mouth when Steven wants to smack himself. Because seriously: can he be any more of an insensitive clod? James suffers from amnesia; those fascists burnt his memories out of him. In all likelihood he's the one who doesn't remember moon pies.

And yet he keeps smiling. "I'd love to listen to it sometime."

"We'll get you a banana moon pie. They have 'em at Walgreens." Steven takes the last sip of the Mountain Dew. James must have researched caffeinated soft drinks, because he knew what the cans in the fridge were for. Steven ventures another look at him. Still smiling. He's quiet, which is his usual, but he's also relaxed, and that is new. 

"I was going to ask," James says, "before, at Starbucks."

"Yeah?" Steven rubs away the drops of water on the can.

"I did not say it right. And I am sorry about that. I never think of you as a sickly invalid. Quite the opposite." He speaks slowly and ends on a quiet smile. Steven can tell he's rehearsed the words all the way from Starbucks to the studio. 

"I'm sorry, too, for getting mad at you," he says. Because he is. So sorry.

"Don't get mad now, okay?" 

Steve sits up, _man_. He's dreading what's coming. He's so not ready for another fight. "What is it?" 

"What I meant to say at the café, about you sleeping here, in the studio."

"What about it?" Steven can feel the familiar rage coil in his belly. "It's my place. I like it here." 

"I know. It is a great studio." 

_Studio_ , he says, and Steven knows what he means. _Not a place to sleep._ But this is not easy for James, and he's looking at a spot somewhere to the left. So Steven listens. He listens.

"I..." James swallows. "I live in a huge apartment, six bedrooms, and I only use one. There is good light, for painting. A lot of space." He quickly glances at Steven, then away again. "A lot of space," he repeats.

He can't be serious. He actually means for Steven to move in with him. It's out of the question, impossible. What would his dad say? Live off someone else's charity? But for a moment Steven let's himself imagine it – moving into the Tower. Living in _Manhattan_ like he's stupid rich. Central heating, parquet flooring, spectacular view down on Fifth Avenue. Not in a million years could he afford such a place. "I know what you're gonna say, James, I just..." 

"Hear me out, okay? The Tower, it is close to your school. And you could, I don't know, do the cleaning." He shrugs a bit helplessly. "I never do the dishes. You could help me with those."

"I'm not authorized to clean private apartments. And you don't have dirty dishes, James. You never cook."

"But I could. I could cook for you." 

Any other time, this would be hilarious. James cannot even make a grilled cheese sandwich for himself. But he thought this through, Steven can tell. He thought about asking Steven to move in with him, perhaps even before he was zapped into another universe and met Steve. It's too much. Steven can't, he simply can't accept an offer like this. It feels like he's losing control of his life if he lets someone like James, someone he _loves_ , help him so much.

He faces him, says stiffly, "Thank you, James, I really do appreciate the offer. And it means a lot. But I can get by on my own."

James nods, twice, as if he expected nothing else. "I know. But the thing is," he reaches across as the table, "you don't have to," and he takes Steven's hands. "It could be just like our arrangement, couldn't it?"

James really did think this through. Steven takes in the stubble on James' face, the bright blue eyes. He's so beautiful underneath the scruffiness and the hurt. He rubs lightly over Steven's knuckles. His hands are warm, strong, metal and flesh. And Steven keeps imagining it: he could leave the studio in the evenings, take the subway to the Tower, and have _this_ – he could be this close to James all the time. He could sleep without being cold. He could get rid of the tenacious cough he's told nobody about. He could get up in the mornings, cook breakfast for James and be at school in ten minutes, tops. Maybe, just maybe he could do this.

Steven detaches his hands from James' touch, and James immediately moves his hands back, he folds his arms before his chest. A defensive gesture, and it's not what Steven intended, not at all. He stands and takes a step towards James. "It could be like the arrangement, I guess."

James unfolds his arms, he turns a bit on his chair – almost as if he was inviting Steven to sit on his lap. Which Steven's clearly imagining. They've never done anything like this. Steven usually hates couples stuff. Sitting on laps especially, because it always would be him sitting in the lap, because he's the small and feminine one. But. This is James. He has no problem being small with James, and he loves being feminine if it doesn't mean he cannot also be a man. So he steps closer, so close that he's standing between James' legs. James tilts his head a bit. He's surprised. But he doesn't retreat. He doesn't shove Steven away. And so Steven sits sideways on James' lap, arm around his neck, and James immediately wraps his metal arm around Steven's waist. They've never been this close, not even when James stayed for the night. Steven leans in, slowly so not to spook James, and brings their heads together.

"I'm so glad you're back," he whispers. And James says, "Me too." His voice breaks on the words. He lifts his hand, the right one, to caress Steven's face.

"What did this other Steve tell you about me?" The question slides out of Steven without any thought. They clearly talked about all the illnesses Steve suffered, before he became superman. But there's more; there's something else. Steven can tell from the way James is different since he's back.

James chuckles. "To mother-hen you, because I can't help it. But not let you know." 

Steven laughs out loud. "What a dick!"

"It is pretty good advice." He pulls Steven closer and looks him in the face. "I – I can't help it." 

He sounds so honest and sincere, and Steven remembers their fight at Starbucks. It's hard to summon the rage he felt. He's got James back, and James is letting him closer than ever before.

"So don't let me know it," he says lightly. "What else did Steve say?"

"He's a good man." James pulls Steven even closer, the metal arm hard and reliable around Steven's waist. "He told me about his life before the war. How he wanted to do so much. For his mother, for the neighborhood. For his... Bucky," and his voice drops when he says the name. "For all the poor artists and workers during the Depression." He laughs softly. 

"And you thought," Steven knocks James hard, because it's the left shoulder, and James can take it, "I bet you thought: exactly like the guy I know at home."

James' lips twitch, and there's the quiet smile again. Steven wants to kiss him so badly it hurts.

"Something like that," James says. "Steve told me not to worry about you. He said: If your Steven is like me he hates asking for help. But he will ask, if he really needs it."

" _Your_ Steven?" Stupid words just seem to slip out of Steven's mouth, and he inwardly groans. 

But James just tilts his head again. "No?" he asks. "You don't like it?"

"I..." Steven feels heat rise to his cheeks, and man – "I like it, I do like it," he whispers. "Just don't let Hannah hear it." He tries to turn this into a joke, but James keeps looking at him with that sincere expression on his face.

"Hydra thought they owned me for seventy years. I'll never try to own you."

"I know," Steven quickly says. "I know that."

"It is just," and now James, too, is blushing, and Steven has never seen him blush. "I'd like for you... and me?"

No idea how it happened but here they are, in the middle of telling each other how they feel. About each other. And he's had a crush on James for _months_ , but he never thought anything would come of it. Because of what happened to James when he was a prisoner of war. And also, well – James is way out of his league. But, man, Bucky was so wrong. For here is James, telling _Steven_ how he feels.

"You and me." Steven traces the bow of James' lip with his finger. "Me and you." He wants to kiss him, right here and now.

But James has gone stiff, and his lips don't move. It's too early and too fast, and Steven will wait for him, even if takes another year and another. James' arm still keeps him close. He can feel James' heart beating a steady rhythm. James is not panicking; he's fine. And that's enough for now, more than enough. Baby steps, Steven thinks, and this is how _he_ takes care of James.

"What," James asks very quietly, right hand caressing Steven's face, "what did... _Bucky_ tell you about me?" 

Steven smiles. "He told me to give you this," and he turns his face so James' fingers slide across his mouth. And he kisses James' fingertips, one and two and all five.

★

_Two weeks later_

James Barnes, no middle name, is back in Washington DC for the first time since he shot Pierce. He remembers sitting in the chair, blood all over himself, waiting for Hydra – Karkov, he thought, Karkov will come – to kill him. Instead Fury showed up and brought him to New York. The Winter Soldier complied. SHIELD, he thought back then, could do nothing worse to him than what Hydra hadn't already done. But Clint did not want to see him buried in a hole. And Tasha understood what it meant for the Soldier to come in, _from the cold_ , and change sides. 

He has traveled on the earliest train and arrived in the capital an hour before sunrise. The Potomac still lies in darkness. He is waiting at the Jefferson Memorial, a ghost behind the columns up the sweep of stairs. The close perimeter is clear; at the wide horizon a pale strip of light stretches across the National Mall. It is growing in intensity; night turning purple, grey turning pink. There is a sense of expectancy in the air. 

Footsteps are coming from the Inlet Bridge, someone is giving quiet orders to a dog. On the other side, the first joggers and dog-walkers appear. James steps out onto the stairs. He is wearing his running gear, black pants, black shirt, well-worn sneakers. He also may have a few more knives on him than usual. And at home he goes running without money and without a gun. But you never know. Just because he and the other dimension Sam took an instant liking to each other does not mean the man here will be a friend.

James thought about going to the Veterans Affairs Headquarter, to meet Sam Wilson there. Because he's a vet, and what James wants from Sam is a friend who knows about being a soldier. It's something he cannot share with Steven – his beautiful, fiery Steven who hates the military. None of the Avengers have been Army. And maybe it is too much to want from a stranger he only ever met in another universe. But James has to give it a try. If Sam and he meet, talk and don't connect, he is going back to New York and will leave it be. But he has to try. Bruce approves, and Tasha gave him her small nod that says _tactically sound, psychology checks out_. And that's why he's here, to accost Sam on his morning run. 

And there he comes, tall black guy, running up from the bridge, the rising sun on his face. Sam lets his gaze glide over the basin, the monument, the path in front of him. He is fit in the way ex-military guys are fit; people who no longer train for combat but keep running seven days a week. For a moment James hesitates, wonders whether he really should approach this man. Should he disrupt Sam Wilson's life, only because in another universe, Sam is such a good friend to Steve? 

But Sam is running past the memorial, not a leisurely run, not a strenuous one, either. The water behind him lies still and silver, the sky is purple and pink, waiting for the day. And James moves down the stairs and falls into the rhythm of Sam's steps.

He passes him for the first time shortly after the Outlet Bridge. On the long stretch up the east side of the basin, James stops and bends down to retie the laces of his shoes. Sam is approaching, they make eye-contact, a friendly nod, one runner to another, and Sam continues on. 

All the way to the Lincoln Memorial James keeps at a fifty meters distance. Perhaps Sam notices him, perhaps he doesn't. It is almost day now, a spatter of clouds in the sky. The air is cool and clean, ready for whatever is going to happen today. James runs until he is directly behind Sam, he is closing up to him, their chests align. For a moment they run together, side by side, same rhythm, same speed. 

Then, “On your left,” James says and passes.

Samuel Thomas Wilson is no different than his counterpart in the other world. James can practically feel him rolling his eyes.

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, already a touch of competitiveness in his voice, "on my left. Got it."

James jogs onwards towards the sun, a secret smile on his face. He has not even started running yet.

★ _the end_ ★

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://vaysh11.tumblr.com/) and [Dreamwidth](https://vaysh.dreamwidth.org/).


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